


Planet Leave

by kms726



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kms726/pseuds/kms726
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off an incident mentioned in the episode 'Marooned', Lister and Rimmer go on planet leave together on Miranda and find themselves getting into a smeg-load of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hollister's Faultless Plan

Captain Frank Hollister was seated behind his desk, his ample frame easily filling out the executive-style cushioned chair. He reclined back and received a pop-up notification on his monitor informing him that that he'd lost his fourth consecutive game of noughts and crosses against the computer. As he took a sip of stale coffee, there was a knock on his office door.  
"Come in," the Captain said without looking up from his monitor.

Todhunter stepped into the office. He smiled briskly. "Good morning, Captain Hollister."

"Oh, good morning, Chris," said Hollister distractedly, closing the game window on his computer. "Close the door, will you?"

"Of course," Todhunter obliged.

"Did you get it?" said Hollister eagerly, eying a suitcase tucked under Todhunter's arm.

"Yes," said Todhunter, placing the suitcase on the table before Hollister. "Just as you asked for, to every specification. And these weren't easy to get, you know. Two of our best Officers were assaulted by Bliss freaks while waiting to make the arrangements."

Hollister rubbed his hands together with childish glee that seemed most unbecoming on a Captain, and opened the case to reveal a couple dozen golden brown doughnuts with white creme frosting and multicolored sprinkles.  
The Captain picked up one of the doughnuts and examined it from all sides. "And they've got that custard in the middle?"

"Yes," said Todhunter, "with a strawberry swirl, just the way you like them, shuttled in this morning from Oberon's finest bakery."

"Good work," Hollister said, his mouth full of gooey, doughy, custard-filled goodness. "No one makes these like Oberon…"

"Is that all, sir?"

"No," said Hollister, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I need you to bring me Lister."

The Captain's request for him to bring in such a low-ranking crew member that in the ordinary course of things should go a whole trip without seeing the Captain was perfectly routine to Todhunter by now. "And Rimmer as well?"

"Not this time," said Hollister, licking his fingers. "I've just got a bit of a demand for him disguised as a proposition. Lister can pass on the message to Rimmer for me; I need to get my Atenolol prescription refilled before I can have Rimmer in this office again."

The look on Todhunter's face was one of great understanding. No one associated with the Second Technician vending machine repairman too much if they could help it. Frankly, he had been surprised when Lister's boot laces weren't confiscated when he was placed in quarters with Rimmer.

"What kind of proposition?"

"I got this letter today;" said Hollister, holding up the paper he'd been reading when Todhunter had come in. "The Space Corp Commander is coming for a routine visit of Red Dwarf tomorrow afternoon. I was supposed to have a month's notice, but you know how those post pods are. And, as I'm sure you can understand, I want to make the best impression possible."  
Todhunter nodded. "So what you're saying is that you want Rimmer and Lister out of your hair?"

Hollister pointed at Todhunter as if to say, you've got it. "Not just them—all of the, well, crew members who might prove embarrassing—Lister, Rimmer, Petersen, Chen, Selby, Headbanger Harris, and MacWilliams and the crowd he's always hanging around him."

"So what's your plan, exactly?"

Hollister smiled. "Let's just say I'm making them an offer they can't refuse."  
...

Lister trudged along beside Todhunter. By now, Lister could find his way to the Captain's office with his eyes closed. He'd been in there just the other day when Hollister had told him that if he still had that diarrhea problem it was about time he checked himself into the medical unit. This had sounded like a good idea at the time, as it meant time to skive off work and not be around Rimmer, maybe even get to be in the company of an attractive nurse. Alas, he had been assigned the biggest, hairiest male nurse in the medical unit and Lister quickly found that this was not the kind of man he wanted to discuss his bowel movements with.  
Lister scuffed his toe on the ground. "So am I in trouble or something?"

"Not this time," said Todhunter as they stopped outside the Captain's office.

"You mean Rimmer didn't put me on report for indecent exposure when I went to work with me fly down?"

"No, he did," said Todhunter. "We just chose to ignore it."

"Good call," Lister grinned, "I tried telling him the zipper was shot but he didn't believe me without documented proof of how and when it happened with photographic evidence."  
"Well, here you are," said Todhunter, rapping his knuckles on the door and smiling in a way that said to Lister he had his deepest sympathies for sharing quarters with such an anal-retentive man.  
Hollister called for them to enter. Todhunter opened the door for Lister, ushering him inside.

"Cheers," said Lister, stepping into the office. He heard Todhunter close the door behind him.

"Ah, Lister," Hollister welcomed as Lister gave him a sloppy salute with a noticeable hint of sarcasm, which the Captain chose to ignore. "Take a seat."

Lister did as he was told. "What've I done this time, sir? I've not been promoted, have I?"

"Do you see pigs flying?" said the Captain, leaning forward as far as his gut would allow. "But I have got some good news for you."

"Oh eh?" said Lister, mirroring Hollister. "What kind of good news, sir?"

"Well, some of the other Officers and I decided to have a lottery with all of the crew member's names entered."

"Don't tell me I've won," Lister said, his eyes wide with over-exaggerated excitement.

Hollister beamed. "It's your lucky day!"

"And what's the prize, exactly? Cash? Paid vacation days? Maybe some fabulous tokens for the vending machines?"

"Try this—the prize is," Hollister paused for effect,"-an all-expense paid weekend-long planet leave to Miranda for you and your bunk mate. Everything will be covered from room service to towels you take and anything else pilfered from the room."

"Brutal!" Lister exclaimed. His smile faded. "Wait—did you say it's with me bunk mate?"

Hollister had hoped this would seem like a small, trivial detail next to a free holiday—he could see now that he was wrong.

"So what you're telling me is that I can have a free holiday—but I have to spend it with Rimmer?"

"That was part of the deal we put together for the winners, yes," said Hollister. "The JMC has always been a strong believer in the buddy system, especially since that time Harrison went to the toilet by himself at that park on Titan and winded up getting flushed down it. It was a roped-off fifty-foot toilet for show purposes only, but the engineers still made it fully-functioning and-"

"But you see, sir-most of the bunk mates don't hate each other," Lister interrupted, correctly assuming that this story couldn't possibly have a pleasant ending. "Hang on—if we both won, then how come you only brought me in, not Rimmer?"

"Let me level with you," said Hollister, folding his hands together. "I'm sure it comes as no surprise when I tell you that the Officers and I think Rimmer can be a little bit—uptight."  
"You're telling me," Lister muttered, rubbing his forehead.

"I think a holiday will be good for Rimmer," said Hollister. "Get some martinis down him, encourage him to flirt with a few women—to relax, unwind. If anyone needs that, Rimmer does. But we need someone to go with him to make sure he doesn't get too relaxed and get into trouble."

"But why me?" Lister whined.

"You're his bunk mate," said Hollister simply. "You know him better than anyone else onboard ship. I think you'll find that you're the closest thing he could call to a friend."  
"I think you'll find that you're wrong," said Lister. "The two of us hate each other. We're always arguing and having shouting matches—remember that time Lucas and McCallin next door reported us when they thought one of us was being murdered?"

"Use the time to get to know each other—to get over your differences."

"We'd need a lot more than one weekend to do that," Lister sighed. "When's this supposed to be?"

"Well, as you know, we're currently orbiting around Uranus—" Hollister paused as Lister put his fist in his mouth to stifle his immature snigger and continued, rolling his eyes. "We'll be docking near Miranda tomorrow morning. So you'd better get packing!"

"And it has to be this weekend ?" Lister had already made plans to get together with Chen, Selby and Petersen for drinks and to watch the London Jets play on the television in the Copacabana.  
"Well, ideally—yes. The company has already paid for the whole thing."

"Sir, I'm not stupid," Lister said. "You might as well give it to me straight. I think I know what's going on here."

Hollister highly doubted this, but was curious nonetheless. "Oh?"

"This is because the Space Corp Commander is coming to visit Red Dwarf this weekend, isn't it?"

"How did you know that?" Hollister blustered. "That's confidential information, Lister!"

"The coffee machine on G Deck," Lister said. "It's always good for the daily hearsay. It's all over the ship, everyone's talking about it."

Hollister cursed the coffee machine under his breath. Lister grinned with satisfaction. "I was supposed to make that announcement myself tonight!"

"So I was right. There wasn't a lottery—you want to get rid of me and Rimmer for the weekend. You're afraid that we'll mess it up for you."

"And how did you know I planned on sending er-certain crew members away? It wasn't that damn coffee machine again, was it?"

"Nah," said Lister. "But it might've helped if you hadn't left your notes out on your desk."

Hollister smiled apologetically and stuffed his papers away. "Don't take offense—it's not just you and Rimmer. In fact, I think you'll be in very good company. Chen, Selby and Petersen will be sent to a mandatory catering course in Mirandian cuisine . But let's keep the real reason why between you and me, okay?"

Lister's outlook brightened considerably with the knowledge that he'd be able to ditch Rimmer and go drinking with his best mates as soon as they landed. He found himself reminiscing the last time he'd been on planet leave with the boys from catering and had got so drunk Friday night that they swore off alcohol until Sunday morning. That was especially saying something for Petersen, who had been in a state of perpetual drunkenness since he was twelve.

At Lister's temporary silence, Hollister hastily continued, "You'll also be given a credit card courtesy of the JMC to do what you like with. In return, all you have to do is put up with Rimmer."

Lister mentally weighed the options. He was going to be stuck with Rimmer for the weekend anyway, just like any other weekend. It might as well be somewhere with a pool and massage tables.

"I'd accept this offer if I were you," Hollister said while Lister mulled it over. "I'm not letting Rimmer screw this up for me. If you can just keep him away for a little more than forty-eight hours, I'll pay you an extra week's salary in advance."

"We'll take the holiday," said Lister quickly.

"Good," said Hollister pleasantly, "Because I wouldn't have taken no for answer." He opened up his desk drawer and slid a manila folder across the table to Lister. "Here are all your details."  
Lister opened up the envelope and thumbed through the papers as Hollister explained, "You'll be staying at the Miranda Hilton, and you'll have full access to all hotel services provided. You and Rimmer are to check in as soon as you arrive on Miranda to give me some peace of mind. Your shuttle departs from Hangar 12 at 10:55 sharp, that's AM, Lister. And the Star Fleet Commander arrives at noon, so you get the idea of how I want things to work. You and Rimmer will be on planet leave from Saturday morning to Monday afternoon, when your checkout at the hotel will be 11 AM, at which point you are to go to the shore shuttles and get back to Red Dwarf or you'll be reported as AWOL. Got it?"

"Yeah, I've got it," Lister said. "Can I go now, sir? Like you said, I've got some packing to do. You wouldn't want me still hanging around when the Space Corp geezer turns up, would you?"

"Go on," Hollister waved Lister off like a pesky fly. Lister had his hand on the doorknob when he said, "Oh, and Lister? Make sure Rimmer doesn't catch on to the real reason you're there. And I think you'd both have a much more pleasant time if he thinks you actually want him there."

Lister winced. "I think it might be hard to make that seem convincing, sir."

"I know," said Hollister. "But give it your best shot."

Lister thought of the extra weeks pay and said, "I'll try, sir."

"Good. You're dismissed."


	2. Hangup in the Hangar

“Where have you been?” Rimmer demanded the second Lister came through the sleeping quarter doors, abandoning the new revision time table he had been color-coding. “I was left to finish that porous circuit on my own.”

“You know where I’ve been, the Captain’s office,” said Lister, setting the folder on the table and going to his storage locker for a lager.

“And?” said Rimmer, “What did he want? Did he throw the book at you for my report about you violating the dress code?”

“Nah,” Lister shook his head and cracked open the can of beer, blinking the amber liquid from his eyes as it sprayed his face. “Hollister could hardly call me on that one—we all know that he spends half his time with his shirttail hanging out his fly. Not that anyone gives a smeg about your reports, anyway. The Officers only ever bother reading them if they want a laugh. Otherwise they come in handy if they're out of bog rolls.”

Rimmer scowled. “Well then, what did he want to see you for, pray tell?”

“I've been promoted.”

Rimmer's heart great a great leap into his throat. “Please God, tell me you're joking!”

“Maybe I am, maybe I'm not,” said Lister. He made Rimmer wait in bated agony as he chugged the rest of his lager. Wiping foam from his chin, Lister crumpled up the can and threw it into the corner of the room. Rimmer was so preoccupied with worrying that he was now the lowest ranking crew member that he didn't even berate Lister for littering. Lister's promotion aspects were laughable, Hollister couldn't possibly promote Lister over him! The scouser didn't deserve a promotion, he didn't even want one. He was content with being a nobody.

“You can get your pants untwisted, Rimmer. He just wanted to talk to me.”

His breathing returning to normal, Rimmer spotted the envelope on the table. “What’s that?”

“The reason he wanted to see me,” said Lister, opening up the folder to show Rimmer the Miranda Hilton brochure. “The whole crew was entered to win an all-expense paid trip to Miranda this weekend and apparently I won.”

“You?” Rimmer cried in disbelief, snatching the brochure from Lister. “You! But why? What have you ever done to deserve this? I’ve been with the company going on fifteen years, you only just got here! You’re an infant in comparison to me!”

“I’m pleased you're so thrilled for me,” said Lister, snatching the brochure back from Rimmer. “I’m allowed to bring one person with me.”

“Hmm,” Rimmer snorted. “I suppose you’re going to bring that Danish lunkhead Petersen and all four of his brain cells.”

“Actually,” said Lister, folding his arms and leaning his back against the table. “I was going to ask you.”

“--that prat would have been better suited for a career in archeology since he spends so much of his time face-down in the dirt,” Rimmer went on. Then Lister's words washed over him. “Me? You were honestly going to invite me over your best drinking chum?”

Lister nodded, trying not to grimace.

“I don’t believe this!” Rimmer exclaimed. “You’ve never chosen to spend time with me over those brain-dead, boozed-up Neanderthals you call friends!”

“I know,” said Lister. “But I think it’s time I did. That is, if you want to go. I’d really like you to. We’re always either working or fighting, or both. I thought it might be good to just you know…” he swallowed, “hang out. Get to know each other better. Have fun.”

Rimmer scanned Lister’s face, looking for any hint of insincerity, a raised corner of his lip or any other facial expression to betray his true intentions. “And you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah,” said Lister. “Besides, you know what they say about all work and no play.”

“What do they say about it, exactly?”

Lister shrugged. “I dunno, but it must be boring. Kind of like our everyday lives. Now I know I could’ve asked any one of my mates—”

“Then why didn’t you?” asked Rimmer suspiciously.

“Because,” said Lister, hoping that Hollister would appreciate his efforts. “Rimmer, you and I both know we got off to a bad start. You can’t deny that we’ve hated each other from the get-go, without really even getting to know each other past our annoying habits.”

“You mean your annoying habits, surely,” Rimmer scoffed. “You'd never see me creating my own bogey wall.”

Lister ignored him. “I think a break would be good for both of us.”

“And you really want to invite me?” said Rimmer, uncertainly pointing at his chest as if doubting Lister's sanity.

“Yeah,” Lister smiled in a way he hoped looked more warm and friendly than forced and painful. “I really do.”

“You’re positive? This isn’t a joke or anything? I’m not going to walk into the hotel room and get covered in tar and feathers?”

“No joke,” Lister fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I want you, Arnold J. Rimmer, to come on holiday with me.”

Rimmer bit his lip, still skeptical.

“Look, Rimmer,” Lister said, “I’m just trying to be nice, I don’t know why you find it so hard to believe. You shouldn’t be so suspicious of people all the time. It’s not healthy.”

“Says a man rarely seen without a plume of cigarette smoke surrounding his person, who drinks a can of lager every morning before even brushing his teeth and puts exercise in the same category as Japanese water torture.”

“I’m talking mentally healthy! ”

“Well, you’d be wary of people, too, Lister, if your older brother had tried to use you as collateral for borrowing his friend’s parrot for show and tell—if you had to sit crouched in a gilded cage, surviving off small seeds, your only entertainment being a Jungle Talk Slide ‘N Spin bird toy...”

“Rimmer,” said Lister flatly, “the invitation's on the table. Now you can take it or leave it. It's up to you.”

“Fine,” said Rimmer. “I'll go. I suppose it can make up for you forgetting my birthday last Tuesday.”

Lister tried to count on his fingers without Rimmer noticing. Smeg, he was right...he had forgotten! He suddenly felt extremely guilty for having returned to the sleeping quarters with a personal cake Petersen had nicked for him from the catering department that night. Lister had eaten the whole cake in front of Rimmer, who had been stonily silent the rest of the evening now he came to think of it. Rimmer didn't even comment when a glob of gooey chocolate frosting plopped onto Lister's boot and he had removed it and licked off the chocolate with an almost indecent amount of pleasure.

“I didn't forget,” Lister recovered quickly. “This is your birthday present. I just didn't want to say anything to you about winning the holiday till it was set in stone. But now you've gone and guessed and spoiled the whole surprise.”

Rimmer knew Lister hadn't planned this, so at least he could put a guilt trip on the little goit. “When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning. Our shuttle takes off at 10:55 from Hangar 12. All the details are here,” said Lister, handing Rimmer the folder, which he eagerly took and began to pour over as Lister pulled a suitcase from his storage locker, set it in his bunk and began to pack.

“You know, it’s a shame the holiday had to be this weekend,” Rimmer said. Lister froze. He should’ve known Rimmer would have heard the gossip somewhere or other. “I’m sure you’ve heard that the Space Fleet Commander is paying a visit. I really wanted to meet him, to prove to him my true potential. Surely he knows of my brothers, if I could have just get a word in, to introduce myself...”

“Oh well,” shrugged Lister. “There’s always next time, I suppose.”

“And there is some satisfaction in knowing I’ll be sleeping in a luxury bed with silk sheets and pillows stuffed with swan feathers while the SCC is slumming it on hard plastic and Z-grade upholstery.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” said Lister distractedly as he packed his most obnoxious Hawaiian print shirts. “Start packing, will ya? And whatever you do, don't bring Inflatable Ingrid—there's real girls on Miranda, so there'll be no android brothels for you.”

Rimmer's face turned tomato red in outrage as he blustered, “For the last time, I told you that wasn't me!”  
~

 

“I can’t believe you forgot to set the alarm!” Rimmer said vehemently as he and Lister bolted down the corridor at 10:50 AM. Rimmer was still doing the zip on his luggage as they ran, and Lister was spitting out toothpaste every few feet.

“Don’t blame me!” Lister gasped, already out of breath half way down the hall from their sleeping quarters. “I thought you set it, you always do!”

“What happens if we miss our shuttle?” Rimmer said, colliding with a supply officer, who looked highly affronted. Judging by the height and positioning of his elbow, she rightly assumed that this wasn’t entirely an accident. “Sorry!”

“Hollister will have both our nads on a silver platter,” Lister wheezed. “If he payed for our holiday and we missed the shuttle.”

They stopped outside the XPress Lifts and Rimmer pounded on the button to open the doors. Lister groaned. “Not these…”

“It’s the fastest way to the hangars,” Rimmer said, glancing down at his watch. “And we’ve got three minutes.”

They waited for the lift to reach their level, Lister still panting heavily. “Listen to you,” Rimmer chided. “You don't exercise enough, miladdio—and it probably doesn't help having your lungs lined with tar. You sound like an asthmatic warthog.”

“You're breathing just as hard as I am!” Lister said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “And you don't even smoke.”

Rimmer's retort was lost when the Xpress lift doors slid open and a small crowd of people bustled out. Once the lift was emptied, Lister and Rimmer stepped inside.

Lister looked around uneasily and hugged his suitcase to his chest as the XPress lift doors closed and the standard emergency procedure video began to play on the vid screen.

At the part in the video where she warned about death being certain if the shuttle were to make a crash landing, the lift attendant’s face was replaced with that of Holly, the ship’s computer. “Ah, there you two are! The Captain’s livid the pair of you haven’t checked into the shuttle bound to Miranda yet.”

“Hi, Hol,” Lister smiled apologetically, “We’re running a bit behind.”

“I can see that,” said Holly. “You two had better get a move on, they’re holding the shuttle just for the pair of you.”

“They are?” said Rimmer.

“Yes, they're even waiting to hand out the packets of dry roasted peanuts. You'd better get a move on!”

“I've never heard of them holding the shuttles before,” Rimmer frowned. “Those things usually run a pretty tight schedule, don't they? They aren't run like airplanes where they can't take off until all passengers are accounted for.”

“Maybe it's cos it's the last shuttle going to Miranda today,” Lister reasoned.

“It's not entirely unheard of,” said Holly. “They had to hold the 9 AM shuttle for Chen, Selby and Petersen this morning. Apparently, Chen and Selby were so drunk that they tried to race to the hangar on the backs of two skutters.”

Lister looked uneasy as Rimmer's eyebrows knotted together. “I thought no one else was going on planet leave this weekend because of the Space Corp Commander's visit. Have they won some fantastic holiday as well?”

“No, Hollister's signed them up for some classes in Mirandian cuisine,” said Holly.

Rimmer smiled stiffly at Lister, whose choice of who to invite would have been made a great deal easier by knowing his best mates would already be there. “Did you know this?”

“No,” Lister lied.

“No one knew till now, their assignment was confidential,” said Holly. “But I figured you'd be seeing them anyway.”

“I wish the shuttle left after noon,” said Rimmer longingly. “If we were leaving just an hour later, I might have been able to meet the Commander...”

“It might be your lucky day, then,” said Holly, “because his shuttle is early.”

~  
The Xpress lift doors slid open and Lister and Rimmer hurtled out of it, Lister looking worse for wear, his distaste of that particular form of transportation evident on his face. Two shuttles were parked in Hangar 12 . The shuttle nearest them had a small entourage descending from the doors. In their haste to pass by, Rimmer bumped into a silver-haired man in a red and gold dolman jacket, who in turn dropped a bottle of sherry he'd been holding. “I say!”

“Watch where you're going,” said Rimmer rudely. “Or I'll report you for loitering around the hangar and impeding the travel of others!”

“Rimmer--” said Lister urgently, tugging on Rimmer's sleeve.

“Just a minute, Lister—obviously this gimboid has no idea the Space Corp Commander is coming, or he wouldn't have gone and spilled an alcoholic beverage all over the floor!” Lister put his hand over his face despairingly.

“I am the Space Corp Commander,” said the formidable silver-haired man, drawing himself up to full height. “That alcoholic beverage spilled all over the floor that you made me drop happened to be a gift for your Captain. And I can assure you that I am no, gimboid, was it?”

Rimmer's face flushed. “I'm so, so sorry, sir. It's just that with that jacket I thought you were meant to be conducting a marching band.” He sank into a deep bow, his nose touching his kneecaps. He straightened up and went into an extra-long Rimmer salute, including ludicrously large circles with his wrist and even some around the head action.

The Commander looked concernedly at Lister. “Is your friend alright?”

“He's not my friend, sir,” said Lister. “And no, he's not alright. He's a bit touched in the head if you know what I mean.”

Rimmer ended his salute and scowled at Lister.

“Arnold Rimmer,” he said, thrusting out his hand and wringing the Commander's hand enthusiastically. “You might know my brothers—John, Howard, Frank—all high fliers in the Space Corp--”

“Yes, I know your brothers well,” said the Commander. “I had a chat with Frank just last week.”

“Did he say anything about me?” said Rimmer eagerly as Lister tapped his watch, which nobody seemed to notice.

The Commander looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think he did,” he said at last. Rimmer beamed. “Something about you repairing chicken soup machines for a living, when you write home to your mother telling her you're an Admiral.”

Rimmer's face flushed a second time. Lister tugged on Rimmer's arm again, pointing across the dock, where Hollister was jogging towards them, his fleshly face fire-engine red, his eyes popping at the sight of his two lowest-ranking recruits socializing with his esteemed guest, the man on top.

“We'd best be making tracks,” said Lister as he dragged Rimmer away.

“I think that's a good idea,” the Commander frowned. “And do watch out for Rimmer, won't you? I rather think Captain Hollister should have required a psychiatric evaluation before letting him go out in public.”

Rimmer looked livid, and as the Commander turned back to face his comrades, Rimmer gave the Commander another salute. Only this time it contained only two fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be wondering why Lister didn't think to invite Kochanski. My explanation for this is simple: he was told by the Captain to bring Rimmer, in my story its early days on Red Dwarf and Lister hasn't clapped eyes on her yet, and I wanted to keep it an all-lads story.


	3. The Miranda Hitlon

The forty-five minute shuttle ride from Red Dwarf to the Miranda docking station nearly had Lister and Rimmer on their knees, kissing the blessed ground when the trip was over. Before their delayed takeoff, the pilots took the opportunity to introduce themselves. Their passengers all wished that they hadn't. The pilot , Archie, looked like someone that should have retired thirty years ago. He was ancient and frail with a dusty look about him, with wispy white hair and hands that were clenched and shaking and looked totally incapable of taking the controls. He wore glasses so thick that they made his eyes look four times too large. Lister had nudged Rimmer and pointed out the man had a cobweb running from his earlobe to his shoulder.

The co-pilot was no less terrifying, but it was in a way entirely opposite of the decrepit-looking pilot. The co-pilot, Penelope, was bright-eyed with short cropped blonde hair and looked to be about twelve. She excitedly announced that she was fresh out of the academy and it was her first trip co-piloting. Neither Lister or Rimmer found any comfort in knowing that if Archie suddenly keeled over dead (which seemed more than likely) that this chirpy blonde greenhorn would be taking over the controls.

Lister and Rimmer spent most of the journey exchanging frightened looks at every lurch of the shuttle and gripping their seats till their knuckles turned white. Archie drove like he had his feet on the gas and the brakes at the same time. He kept drifting out of their space lane, causing oncoming traffic to honk and have to swerve out of the way before a collision. Penelope emerged from the cockpit at one point in the journey to announce that the PA system was down, so it was left to her to inform them of some hopefully nonthreatening space debris in the distance. While Penelope was talking, Archie stumbled out of the cockpit past her and walked, stiff-legged, down the aisle toward the toilets. The passengers simultaneously began to gibber like lunatics for Penelope to take the controls.

By the time they had docked in Miranda, Rimmer had written his last will and testament on a sick bag and Lister had beckoned a flight attendant over and asked if there was a priest on board.

The next few hours were equally torturous as Lister and Rimmer had to go through customs and security checkpoints. Security had been made tighter as use of the designer drug, Bliss, became rampant on Miranda. The drug was especially dangerous because it made the user feel all-powerful, believing themselves to be God. So much as looking at the drug could make one become addicted. Everyone who passed through the checkpoints were considered potential smugglers. Lister and Rimmer were both thoroughly frisked by two members of security, both of which were blindfolded in case they did discover any Bliss. This meant that they had very little control in where they jabbed their sensor wands.

This highly uncomfortable situation was made even more tense when a nervous traveler being searched next to Lister said exactly the wrong thing: "Sure you're not looking for bombs?"

The B word. Two seconds later, ten men dressed all in black and wearing bullet-proof vests appeared seemingly out of the walls tackled the poor man, leaving him squished to the floor at the very bottom of a dog pile.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Lister and Rimmer made it out of the docks, both feeling violated. Lister flagged down a hopper outside the shuttle port on Miranda and made a mental note not to tip the driver too generously when he didn't get out to help load their luggage into the boot. Didn't he know what they had just been through?

"Hey, are you two astros?" the driver flashed a row of black and yellow teeth as he turned in his seat to grin at them.

"Yeah, we are," said Lister, strapping himself in tightly. Having spent six months driving a hopper, he knew how temperamental they could be. "from Red Dwarf."

"That's a mining ship, innit?"

"Yes," said Rimmer. "To tell you the truth, I don't know how they'll manage this weekend without us. We work more in essential routine maintenance, keeping things running in tip-top shape."

"What, like making sure the mining lasers are powerful enough?"

"Actually, we repair vending machines," said Lister. Rimmer gurned as Lister said this. "What, we do!"

"A noble profession," said the driver, a little too heartily.

"You're one to talk," Rimmer muttered under his breath.

"I used to drive a hopper on Mimas," said Lister conversationally.

"Really? So did I," said the driver. "That is, until it was stolen from me at the pump when I had to go inside and pay cash for the petrol." Luckily, the driver didn't notice Lister suddenly shift guiltily in his seat.

"Where to, gents?" said the driver, clicking on his hired sign.

"The Miranda Hilton," said Rimmer.

"You're a funny one," laughed the driver, starting the meter. "The Miranda Hilton it is, then!"

The hopper juddered into life, its long legs springing off down the high street, landing every twenty feet with enough force to register on a Richter scale. The hopper leaped clear over ground traffic and ran several red lights. Outside the window, Rimmer and Lister saw two hoppers collide in mid-air. Just as Lister was starting to wonder whether they'd ever reach the hotel alive, they reached their destination—a shabby looking hotel with several bullet holes visible in the walls.

"Here we are," said the cabbie. "The Miranda Hitlon."

"The what?" Rimmer and Lister said in stereo.

"Look at the state of this moon," said the cabbie, gesturing around the dilapidated street; shops with the roofs half caved in, a fire hydrant spraying water straight up into the air like a geyser and cracks running so deep in the pavement it threatened cracking the sewer below. "This place is the pits. Do you really think they'd build a Hilton hotel here? Nah, the Hitlon is a knock-off, a gimmick. But it's subtle, a lot of tourists, like yourselves, get a mild case of dyslexia, book the hotel and end up staying here."

"No way," said Lister in disbelief, pulling the brochure Hollister had given him from his jacket pocket. The luxurious hotel pictured was certainly not the same one standing outside.

"There," said Rimmer, pointing to the header. "It does say the Miranda Hitlon! How could we have possibly missed that?"

"Well," said Lister optimistically. "Let's hope it's better looking on the inside!"

…...

The Miranda Hitlon was better looking on the inside, but only just. It attempted grandeur and magnificence, yet seemed to fall short. The carpet was a deep velvety red, the walls were paneled with white and gold and an appraisal of the sparkling diamond chandelier would reveal it was in fact made of plastic.

They made their way to the front desk. "Hullo," Lister said to the pompous-looking man with a black mustache and no hair standing behind the counter. He eyed Rimmer and Lister disdainfully. His lip curled and he looked towards the doors as if to see if they'd tracked mud in after them. He looked down at the register book and immersed himself in it, making a good show of not having seen the two technicians standing in front of him.

Exasperated, Lister rang the bell on the counter. The clerk sniffed at the chime but continued to ignore them.

"Excuse me?" said Rimmer loudly. "Would you kindly remove the stick from your backside and assist us?"

The clerk jumped, looking for all the world like he'd only just noticed them there. "Can I help you, sirs?" His mustache fluttered when he spoke.

"Dave Lister and Arnold Rimmer, we have a room booked..."

Looking down his long nose at them for a moment, the attendant sniffed and consulted the register. It wasn't a congested sniff, but one that seemed to be manifesting his superiority over all those around him. "Ah yes," he said and sniffed again. "Room 227, booked last night. We usually do like to have reservations several weeks in advance, for future reference."

"We didn't book the room-" Rimmer began, but the man turned his back on them, clapping his hands together. A second later a young bellhop appeared. "Would you please escort these two gentlemen to their room?"

The attendant placed the key to room 227 in the Bellhop's white-gloved hand. The bellhop looked at Rimmer and Lister oddly, before saying, "This way please, sirs..."

The attendant sniffed again and said, "We do hope you enjoy your stay, sirs." Sniff.

"Cheers, man," said Lister, pulling a tissue from a box on the counter and waving it in front of the clerk's nose. "And take this."

The bellhop escorted them into a lift and then led them down the red-carpeted hallway lined with doors bearing "Do Not Disturb" signs. He set down their luggage outside room 227 and used the key card to unlock the door.

"Here you are," said the man, pushing the door open. "I hope that you find the room to your liking."

"Cheers, mate," said Lister, stepping into the room. Rimmer followed and nearly collided with Lister. The two of them froze on the threshold, taking in the sight before them.

"Holy smeg," Lister breathed.

Rimmer shook his head in disbelief. "You have got to be kidding me!"

It was without a doubt the most tacky, tasteless room that either of them had ever seen. The carpet was Pepto Bismol pink and patterned with red hearts. The curtains were the same shade of pink as the floor and the satin was suffocated by white lace. There was a fireplace on the opposite wall, the grate of which was shaped like a gilded gold heart. A loveseat sat before the fireplace, shaped like a pair of gigantic red lips to compete with the ones in the opening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. A silver diamond-encrusted chandelier (also with plastic 'diamonds') glittered from the ceiling, hanging directly over a heart-shaped waterbed with a vibrator built into the side.

"You have," Rimmer repeated, almost trembling with indignation, "got to be kidding me!"

Lister turned to the bellboy. "We're on planet leave, not a smegging honeymoon."

The bellboy smiled. "Of course, Sir."

Lister didn't like that smile. His eyes went wide as he gesticulated wildly between himself and Rimmer. "Me and him-we're not-you don't think we—we hate each other!"

Rimmer nodded in agreement. "It's true, we do."

"Of course, sir," the attendant continued to smile his petulant tight-lipped smile.

"We're just bunk mates," said Rimmer firmly, as Lister considered wiping that smile off the attendant's face with his fist. "We're here to celebrate his birthday."

"I'm sure you are, sir," the man said again. "I completely understand. Would sirs care to purchase an intimacy kit?"

"No!" Lister snapped. "I mean no, thanks. We won't be needing it."

"Very good, sir. I'm sorry that I have to ask, but it is standard procedure."

"Look," said Lister. "By any chance, are there any other rooms available?

"I'm sorry," the hotel attendant said, "but your booking didn't come in until last night, it's all we had available on such short notice."

"Are you sure?" said Rimmer desperately. "I refuse to sleep in a room that is no doubt reserved exclusively for when some two-bit American businessman with a novelty tie and bad comb over wants to get his jollies with his mistress from the red light district! Are you absolutely sure there's nothing else?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," said the bellboy. "We're fully-booked. Unless sir would like a broom cupboard?"

"We'll take it," said Rimmer immediately.

Lister wandered over to the window and pulled back the lacy curtains. "I dunno, Rimmer," he said, his voice dripping with poorly disguised sarcasm, "it does have a fantastic view."

Rimmer joined Lister by the window. He peered out, only to see straight into the window of a gym, where he found himself looking directly into the profusely sweating face of an obese man on an exercise bike. The red-faced man took one hand off the bike handle and waved at him.

"I'm sorry, but I am not staying here," said Rimmer stubbornly, turning away from the window. "If I wanted to see an overweight man perspiring a liter of sweat by the hour, I would have stayed back on Red Dwarf, follow Captain Hollister to the canteen and watch him eat an entire tray of jalapeno poppers."

"Rimmer, where else are we going to find a pre-paid room on a Saturday night?" Lister pointed out. "I say we make do."

Lister sat down on a poufy chair and leaped back to his feet when he heard a grating sound behind him. To his astonishment, he saw the floor open up and the carpet retract back into itself to reveal a steaming Jacuzzi.

"On second thought," Rimmer said, smiling pleasantly at the bellboy, "we will take it."

"Excellent," beamed the attendant. He picked up their suitcases and set them inside the door. Then he stood there uprightly and continued to smile.

"Are you still here?" said Rimmer, annoyed.

"Oh, right, sorry," said Lister. He went over to the attendant. He pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, found nothing, and said, "Y'know what? Just put a tip on our tab, as much as you'd like, courtesy of the JMC."

"Thank you very much, sir," said the bellboy pleasantly. "If you need anything else, please, do not hesitate to call. " He tipped his hat to them and exited the room.

"I think the first thing we need to resolve," said Rimmer once the attendant's footsteps had faded down the hallway, "is the sleeping arrangements."

"How'd you mean?" Lister said innocently. He followed Rimmer's gaze to the heart-shaped waterbed and grinned. "Oh, that."

"Well?" Rimmer blustered.

"Well, what?"

'We're not both going to sleep in there, are we?"

"Not if you're not comfortable with it," said Lister nonchalantly.

An awkward silence followed. "Are you?" Rimmer asked.

"Honestly, AJ-you're not exactly on the top of my list of people to share a vibrating heart-shaped waterbed with, in fact you're pretty much near the bottom, right behind Jabba the Hut. But beggars can't be choosers. I suppose I've slept with worse."

Rimmer couldn't help but feel a bit insulted by this-he felt like he had every reason not to want to share a bed with Lister, a man who was a world-class snorer, whose bed sheets belonged in a hazardous waste bin, what he couldn't understand was why Lister didn't want to share a bed with him. He was neat and tidy, his bed sheets were always pristine, he showered regularly, he didn't snore, he kept to his side of the bed and he kept his toenails trimmed. What more could one ask for in a bunk mate?

"It's not like we have much of a choice," Lister shrugged. "There is only one bed. And it's got to be a king size, and we're two half-pint, heterosexual men despite what that doorman thought, I'll bet we could both sleep in it without even knowing the other one's there. No, wait—what am I saying? I'd rather bunk with a giant cockroach."

Rimmer shook his head. "I cannot believe this is happening. Did Hollister by any chance mention that he'd booked us the honeymoon suite?"

"No," Lister shook his head. "He didn't say anything about it. But I'll bet him and the other Officers are laughing it up right now."

Rimmer's face suddenly went very scarlet and hot. Lister was right. The Officers were probably back on Red Dwarf, sipping chilled champagne and laughing it up over their personal attack on him disguised as a holiday. His paranoia told him that Lister was probably in on it too. Well, he wouldn't stand for it. "You take the floor."

"You what?" Lister smirked in disbelief. "Look, Rimmer-if you're afraid that I'm gonna try to come on to you just because it's the honeymoon suite or something then you're-"

"I'm the superior officer here and I'm not going to stand for any of this nonsense. I'll take the bed tonight, you take the floor."

"Rimmer, I am not sleeping on the floor," Lister said, pointing at the sickeningly pick heart-decked floor. "Just looking at it makes me sick. I say I get the bed, you wouldn't even be on planet leave if it weren't for me!"

"Remind me to thank you when we get back," said Rimmer. "Perhaps by pushing you into the airlock and shooting you out into space."

"Talk about ingratitude," Lister said, shaking his head.

"If you won't have the floor, then sleep on that loveseat," said Rimmer, pointing to the giant lips.

Lister walked over to the red monstrosity and eyed it up and down. "No way, Rimmer. I am NOT sleeping on this couch--it looks like it could eat me!"

"Well, you are not sleeping in the bed, miladdio. And that's that," said Rimmer, crossing his arms.

"Fine," said Lister. "I'll just have the Jacuzzi, then!"

Rimmer's smile of victory faded. "You're going to sleep in the Jacuzzi?"

"Sure, why not?" Lister grinned. "I might get a bit pruny, but at least it's warm. And I wasn't exactly in love with the idea of sleeping in the same bed as you anyway."

"Are you sure you don't want the bed?"

"Rimmer, where are you coming from?" Lister cried. "You wanted the bed, you take it. You are the birthday boy. I'm having the Jacuzzi, its headrest, jets, and the built-in luxury massager. And that's that."

"Fine," Rimmer sniffed. "But if I wake up to find you at the bottom, don't expect me to revive you."

"Don't worry, I don't," said Lister.

Rimmer may have won the first battle, but he was losing the second. "You don't even know how to swim!"

"I don't think that will be much of a problem, Rimmer," said Lister, kneeling down beside the tub. "It's only four foot deep."

"Fine," said Rimmer. "But I get it tomorrow night!"

"Have it your way," said Lister indifferently.

"I'll bet Hollister's laughing himself sick right now thinking of us arguing over the bed," said Rimmer bitterly. "There's his American sense of humor coming through. They're all about tasteless gags and cheap laughs, no class whatsoever. Some of them even thought that Bob Saget was funny! The whole country only ever made three sitcoms that were worth watching before the turn of the twenty-first century when everything shifted to reality TV. Perfect—you probably signed us up to be one of them when you accepted the holiday!" Rimmer began to search the room for hidden cameras. "You didn't sign any consent forms, did you?"

Lister checked his wristwatch and let out a whoop of excitement before getting up and diving onto the waterbed. As it rippled around him, Lister crawled up to the bedside table and fumbled around in the drawer.

"Um, Lister-what exactly do you think you're doing?"

"The game's on," Lister enthused, tossing aside a copy of Gideon's Bible. "Not that bloke again….aha!" he held up a remote and pointed it towards the television mounted on the opposite wall above the wardrobe. "London Jets versus the Berlin Bandits!"

Rimmer groaned inwardly. "I don't know what you find so appealing about a bunch of brainless oafs hurtling themselves through thin air."

"It's one of the great art forms of mankind," said Lister. "You've got Leonardo da Vinci with his Mona Lisa, and you've got Carraway with his overhead defense."

"I think you'll find that is was Michelangelo, you gimboid," said Rimmer contemptuously.

"Who's he play for then?" Lister frowned. "I've never heard of him. Is he new?"

"This is exactly my point!" Rimmer cried. "You're so busy watching men pirouetting about the field after a black and white checkered ball that you never stop to appreciate the finer things in life!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever man," Lister said, his eyes fixed avidly on the screen. "Ahhh look-there's Jim Bexley Speed coming onto the field!"

Rimmer pretended to feign interest. "Who's he, then?"

Lister looked at Rimmer as though he'd suddenly declared his undying love for pickled herring. "Who is he? Only the greatest Roof Attack player who ever lived! Speed holds the all-time record for three dimensional yardage in a single season. His best season by far was '74-'75, with 4,636 yards in the regular season. The dude's a diva!"

"How is it you can remember all that, but you refuse to memorize the chant I came up with for Z Shift?"

"What, 'we are tough, and we are mean-Rimmer's Z Shift gets things clean'?" Lister laughed.

"You do know it!" Rimmer cried. "How come you always say you can't remember it when start our shift in the morning?"

"Because," said Lister. "Unlike you, most of the people on board still think I'm sane. My goal isn't to see how many times I can visit the ship's psychiatrist on a single trip."

"You just have no spirit," Rimmer said. He felt lame for saying it-like one of those student council members he'd always sneered at back in school on Io when they tried to get him to cheer at school assemblies.

"Look, there he is again!" said Lister eagerly, pointing at the screen as close-up of Speed came up. "I met him once, you know. He signed me forehead. I remember saying I was never going to wash me face again. I got home and wanted to see it for meself. I looked in the mirror, wondering who deepS yelxeB miJ was. And then I twigged-he must be dyslexic."

Rimmer laughed openly. "Yes, I'm sure that's what it was."

"It's not funny-it's a real condition!" said Lister indignantly.

"I know, Listy-as is being a complete and total gimp, and for that you have my deepest sympathies."

"You just can't appreciate the magnitude of it all," said Lister. The game went to commercial and Lister waded over the bedspread and reached for the phone.

"What are you doing?" said Rimmer.

"Calling room service, I'm starving," said Lister, picking up the receiver and dialing a number he found on a placard beside the phone. "Hi, is this room service? Yeah, I'd like half a dozen onion gravy sandwiches—yeah, they're just what they sound like—and a six pack of leopard lager. I'm in room 227," Lister covered the mouth piece and asked Rimmer, "What do you want?"

Rimmer looked up from the menu he'd been thumbing through and said, "Tell them I'll have a small serving of Beluga sturgeon caviar, a morsel of truffle-smoked foie gras with mustard seeds and spring onions, with an insalata caprese salad with balsamic reduction. Oh, and a bottle of their finest, most matured Dom Perignon."

Lister looked at Rimmer blankly. "I'm not saying that."

Rimmer impatiently took the phone from Lister, who turned his attention back to the game now the commercials were over. Rimmer repeated his order several times, sticking his finger in one ear to try to block out the sound of Lister shouting abuse at the screen when the ref carded the London Jets striker. Frustrated at the incompetence of some people, Rimmer hung up the phone, having successfully placed his order, though he was told they might have to pop down the shops for some of it. That is until Rimmer said how generous he was willing to tip (courtesy of the JMC , of course) and the food was miraculously in their room within fifteen minutes.

"Now this is what you call sophistication," said Rimmer as he lifted the silver lid off his dish, and looking down his nose at Lister's triangular cut and overlapping pile of onion sandwiches. Someone had garnished the top sandwich with a sprig of parsley in a half-hearted attempt to make the meal look elegant.

"Eugh!" said Lister, tossing aside the parsley with his usual repulsion associated with anything green and leafy. Lister scarfed down his onion gravy sandwiches with indecent speed, generously feeding his shirt as well. Gravy dripping down his chin, Lister smirked at Rimmer, who seemed to be second-guessing his order as he pushed the caviar around with his fork with a sour look on his face.

"What's wrong, AJ?" Lister said, "Is your inner yuppie not as satisfied as you thought it would be?"

Scowling, determined to convince Lister that he ate like this all the time, Rimmer took a sizable bite of salty caviar. He tried to look thoughtful and appreciative as he rolled the little tapioca-like balls on his tongue, when all he really wanted to do was spit them out all over the floor. With a grimace, Rimmer swallowed and said, "Absolutely delicious, the food of gods!"

Lister rolled his eyes, cracking open a can of lager. Thankful that Lister's attention was focused on the game, Rimmer slipped into the toilet and scraped the entire contents of his plate into the toilet. He flushed, watching the black balls of caviar, pink bits of foie gras and the green and white bits of his salad swirl madly around in the bowl, looking very much like some colorful sick.

Rimmer emerged from the loo to find Lister on his feet, yelling triumphantly and pumping the air with his fist. "You should have seen Speed just then, Rimmer! He—oh, why am I wasting my breath on you? You wouldn't get it anyway."

"Is it over?" said Rimmer, sitting beside Lister on the bed as he watched the players return to their feet to the ground and shuffle off the field.

"Nah, just half-time," said Lister, grinning. "But it's 2-0. The Bandits don't stand a chance!"

When the game resumed, Rimmer tried to follow it. But Lister was right, he didn't get it. As the players did moves in midair to put the most accomplished ballerinas to shame, Rimmer kept finding himself imagining the cacophony that would break out if someone were to slip a second ball into the game...

Forty-five minutes later, the match was over and Lister triumphantly celebrated a London Jets win of 3-0 by doing a touchdown shuffle. Rimmer was jerked out of his stupor when Lister switched off the TV set and enthused, "Let's celebrate!"

"What, that it's over?" said Rimmer dully. Watching the match excited Rimmer about as much as sitting and watching a screen saver of a pet shop fish tank. After giving up on trying to get as enthused as Lister was, he had tried to find ways to entertain himself, but there was only so many times he could roll and unroll his socks before the novelty wore off.

The phone rang and Rimmer rushed to answer. He was greeted by some incoherent drunken slurring. He handed the phone over to Lister, "I think it's for you."

"Peterseeeen!" Lister said loudly. "Yeah, of course I saw it! No way man, they're going all the way….the Copenhagen Commodores haven't got a chance! " Rimmer tuned out Lister after this, the idea of rolling socks suddenly became very appealing again.

A few moments later Lister put down the phone. "Petersen told me about this pub called the Jerkin' Merkin, just a block or two from here," said Lister. "Says they do a great Boddies and everything. Fancy going out with the lads tonight, having a few drinks?" Lister already knew the answer before he asked the question.

This sounded about as appealing to Rimmer as the idea of sharing a bed with Lister. "No, thanks, I think I'll pass."

"Okay, well, don't say I didn't ask," Lister said, grabbing his black coat and sidling out of the room.

With Lister gone, Rimmer grabbed his swimming trunks from his luggage and changed into them. He tentatively tested the hot tub water with his toes before lowering his body into the water by degrees, wincing as the considerably more than tepid water touched his skin. By the time he sat down the water rose up to chest level he found himself in the lap of luxury. "Alone at last," Rimmer said contentedly, leaning into the jet back massager. "This is the life..."

Now if only he could block out the sound of the honeymooning couple next door …


	4. I Love Petersen

It was around half past three and Lister still wasn't back from his night out with the lads yet, and Rimmer hated to admit to himself that he was starting to get a tad worried. He was, after all, Lister's superior and he was sure that if anything serious happened to Lister it would be his neck on the line. But, as he had virtually no way of contacting Lister, and as he wasn't about to go out in an unfamiliar and potentially unfriendly Mirandian city in the middle of the night to look for him, all he could do was wait. Even the couple next door had finally given up on their shag fest, so surely all of the other nocturnal creatures would turn in soon, his bunk mate included.

Lying in the ludicrous bed, Rimmer turned to the next page in Morris Dancer Monthly, to an article entitled Morris Dancing: Where in the world did it really originate? But what he read in his mind was David Lister: Where the smeg is he?

Rimmer's whole frame stiffened when he heard something scratching at the door. He heard a familiar drunken snigger and relaxed. It was just Lister trying to slide the key card and missing. After a couple minutes of struggling, Rimmer considering taking pity on him and helping the poor inebriated Scouser, but decided against it. He figured that if Lister wanted to stay out late on an unfamiliar moon getting bladdered, then he deserved all the consequences that went along with it—including the possibility of having to sleep outside the door because he was too incapacitated to navigate his way around the doorknob.

At long last Lister found the slot for the card and stumbled into the room, still doing his machine gun chuckle. Rimmer saw that Lister had acquired some trinkets on his escapade, including a brightly-colored children's flotation device around his waist and someone's decorative lawn gnome tucked under his arm. In his hand were two figurines, the bride and groom off the top of a wedding cake. Lister noticed a spot of icing on the couple's feet and licked it off gleefully.

"Mornin' Rimmer," Lister laughed, kicking the door shut. Rimmer pinched his nose-he could smell the alcohol on Lister from ten feet away.

"Where have you been?" Rimmer demanded as Lister piled his stolen goods on top of the television set. "The pubs must have been closed for a good three hours. I'll be putting you on report for this, miladdio. There must be some sort of Space Corp planet leave curfew, and you can bet that I'm going to find out what it is."

"Rimmer…Rimmer…" Lister struggled to remain upright, swaying where he stood. "I wanna show you something…"

"Show me what?" Rimmer looked uncertain.

Lister took a few unsteady steps toward the bed. "You wanna see it?"

Rimmer could smell an alcoholic graveyard on Lister's breath. "See what?" he squeaked nervously, as Lister started to undo his belt buckle. He knew getting this room was a mistake! He knew he should have moved to the broom cupboard!

"You're gonna like this," Lister slurred, still struggling with the buckle. "I know I do…"

Rimmer gulped, wondering whether or not he should grab the bedside lamp and give Lister a good whack over the head with it.

"Woo, there it goes!" Lister cried triumphantly as his trousers fell down around his ankles so that he was standing mere inches away from Rimmer in his boxer shorts. He wriggled his right leg out of his trousers and put his boot up on the bed. "Look here!" to Rimmer's immense relief, Lister was pointing to a bandage on his inner thigh.

"Oh," said Rimmer, still counting his lucky stars that was all Lister had wanted to show him. "And what is that, exactly?"

"I'm not s'pose to take it off yet, but I'll do it for you," said Lister. He let out a yelp of pain as he ripped the bandage off in one go. Rimmer's jaw dropped. "You got a tattoo?"

"Yep!" said Lister proudly. Rimmer turned the bedside light up a notch to see it better. The skin on Lister's inner thigh was red and inflamed, and in the center of the swelling was a heart in between the words 'I' and 'Petersen'.

"And you're sure you're not going to regret this come tomorrow?"

"No way," Lister giggled. "Petersen got one as well, he loves me too."

Rimmer shook his head in disbelief. "Well, the two of your both seem to love getting drunk out of your skulls and doing completely insensible things like getting tattoos, so there's no denying you're a match made in heaven."

"Hurts like hell, though," Lister yawned, stretching. With one more drunken giggle, he dropped a coin in the vibrator. Rimmer was jostled about as the waterbed began to violently shake, the bed frame knocking against the wall. The next thing Rimmer knew Lister had keeled over face-first into the mattress, one trouser leg still balled up around his ankle. Rimmer glared at the inferior, tattooed technician, passed out in his underpants-and wondered how he'd ever had the misfortune of being quartered with such an onion of a man.

"Ohhh Listy," Rimmer smiled his vulture smile as Lister began to snore, his open mouth already drooling onto the bed sheets. "Boy, are you ever going to hate yourself in the morning…"

Outside of the honeymoon suite, the bellboy had his ear pressed against the door of his earlier clients. He could hear the sound of the bed frame bumping against the wall. "I knew it!" he said triumphantly. He placed a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorway and traipsed away, whistling innocently.

...

Rimmer woke up around ten the next morning to find that his bunk mate was still passed out in his drawers, a fairly routine Sunday morning by now. Thinking it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, especially when they were guaranteed to have hangovers—Rimmer rose and went to catch a late breakfast of poached eggs and toast in the hotel diner. He then took a brisk walk around the outside of the hotel, returning rather quickly when a toothless old man tried to sell him a taxidermied armadillo. He returned to the room to find Lister exactly where he left him. So he put on his swimming trunks under his clothes and decided to go for a swim in the hotel's heated indoor pool.

When he returned back to the room at one o'clock and found that Lister was still asleep, he decided it was time he did something about it.

"Lister?" he prodded his shoulder. "Lister!"

Unresponsive, Lister continued to snore and suck his thumb.

"Well, don't say you didn't ask for it," said Rimmer. He turned on the clock radio on the bedside cabinet and fiddled around with the tuner until he picked up a song heavy on the Leslie B-3 Hammond organ, cranking it up to full volume.

Within seconds Lister began to stir, an agitated expression on his face as if he had an unpleasant smell under his nose, Lister lifted his head up and groaned. "Where am I?" he turned his head a fraction more and saw Rimmer standing over him, "Turn that smeg off, will ya, Rimmer? Me head's killing me…"

"I'm not surprised," Rimmer leered. "You were out drinking till half past three last night, among other things. I'd say good morning, but it's gone one."

Lister stretched and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, he didn't look at all perturbed to find he was in his underpants. "I feel like I've had a marching band running through me head…" with some strain, he reached out and unplugged the radio.

"Well," said Rimmer. "Perhaps you'd like to freshen up a bit? I don't know about you, but I didn't plan on spending my entire holiday in a hotel room while you sleep off a hangover."

"You're right," said Lister, painstakingly peeling himself up off the bed. "A shower might help to clear me head a bit."

Rimmer couldn't help but smile with savage pleasure as he watched Lister gingerly hobble towards the shower, walking as though he'd had a cheese grater vigorously rubbed up and down the inside of his thigh.

After the bathroom door closed, the second technician stood outside the door and waited. He heard the toilet flush and then the shower turn on. He glanced down at his watch. "Three…two…one…"

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Right on cue, Rimmer thought. He lightly knocked on the door. "Lister, everything tickety-boo in there?"

"No, it smegging well isn't!"

Rimmer saw the door handle turn and jumped back just in time. The door flew open, banging off the wall. Lister charged out, dripping wet, with nothing but a towel around his waist and a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.

"Whatever is the matter, Listy?" said Rimmer in his best sickeningly sweet voice.

"There's a spider in the shower!" Lister said, his voice shaking. "And it almost touched me! It was this big!" he mimed a spider as big as a football with his hands. "I swear, it was that big! It had to have been a tarantula!"

"So that girlish scream had absolutely nothing to do with that tattoo you got on your inner thigh last night?"

"Tattoo? What tattoo?" Lister checked his thigh and let out another scream to rival the first one. "Smegging hell! I felt me leg burning, I figured it was just some chaffing..."

"Ohhh Listy, Listy, Listy," Rimmer crooned. "I guess this is a lesson to you to never again forever embellish a declaration of undying love on your person during a drunken night out with the lads."

"I am going to kill Petersen!" Lister growled. "He knows how easily persuaded I am when I've had a few...I can't believe this has happened again!"

"Again?" Rimmer exclaimed. "What do you mean, again? This isn't your first tattoo?"

Lister shook his head despairingly, looking furious at himself.

"What about your other tattoo?" asked Rimmer curiously. "Where is it, why have I never seen it before?"

"Because, Rimmer," said Lister tetchily, "it's on a place that I generally try not to display to the public." Lister shuddered, the memory of bright stage lights shining down on him and the hundreds of shocked faces in the audience staring at him as he bore all—the wolf-whistles, jeering and laughter, the ninety-year old woman in the front row that fainted and had to be carried off on a stretcher, then the angry director marching up and slapping his face for ruining her opening night show came flooding back to him.

"I see," said Rimmer. He hadn't lived with him for more than a couple of months but Lister had never struck him as the type to consider modesty a virtue. He certainly hadn't seen any tattoos before or he would have put Lister on report for vandalizing JMC property. Rimmer considered joining the Space Corp to be a lifetime commitment, body and soul. That meant being a living, walking, talking endorsement of the SC from his crew-cut hair to his shiny black boots. If he had been Captain, Petersen's sleeve would be enough for him to be dishonorably discharged.

Sensing Rimmer's unasked questions lingering in the air, Lister took a deep breath and said, "Nearly the exact same thing happened the last time I went on planet leave on Ganymede with Petersen. He got me so drunk I started to think that the geezer on the Glen Fujiyama label looked pretty good, especially after Petersen spiked my cocktail with five-star petrol. Only last time I got a tattoo on me bum—a heart with an arrow through it dripping with curry sauce, and the words 'I Love Vindaloo'. I don't know how he talked me into getting it, I was only there for moral support while he got one! I also ended up enrolling in a Ganymedian monastery as a novice monk. I didn't even remember I'd gotten the tattoo until I had to hand in me habit."

"What a charming story," Rimmer said sardonically. "At least now it makes sense to me why you insisted on standing for two weeks straight after that trip. But why didn't you tell me about it, miladdo?"

"Because I didn't want to be given the third degree for something I can't smegging well change, that's why!"

"Serves you right, having to forever live with the consequences of your actions," Rimmer sniffed, reminding Lister unpleasantly of the hotel clerk.

"What are girls gonna say when they see this? The vindaloo one I can explain, but this?" Lister scratched ineffectively at the tender skin as if this would take it off. Wincing with the pain inflicted by the touch, he groaned. "I'm gonna have to save up for ages to get this removed..."

Rimmer smiled beadily. "Well, Listy, this isn't the first time alcohol has made you wake up filled with regret, and I can say with all confidence that it won't be the last."

"Smeg off," said Lister bad-temperately, as he went off in search of the ice machine. It wasn't until he heard a pair of young girls pointing and laughing behind him that he realized it probably would have been a good idea to put on more than a skimpy towel before venturing out of his hotel room.


	5. The Hacienda

That evening, Lister once again made plans to go out drinking with Chen, Selby and Petersen. He'd spent a good portion of the afternoon trying to find relief for his hangover and for the pain from his second tattoo. He thought for sure he had maxed out the JMC credit card at the corner chemist buying ointments and alka seltzer tablets that he later found useless. He finally decided that the only way to find relief was in the way he got his ailments—by drowning his pain in alcohol. So he'd put on his loosest pair of trousers for the least contact with his skin and his loudest Hawaiian print shirt and was good to go.

Petersen said he'd heard about this great place called the Hacienda, and as Mirandian officials were enforcing a prohibition policy in the New Year, Petersen had declared that it was his mission to suck the planet dry before the government could.

Lister knew it was probably a waste of breath when he said, "Rimmer, I'm going out with the lads again tonight, you coming?" and was taken aback when Rimmer had readily agreed, taking off to the bathroom to get changed.

Lister was now sitting on the bed, idly flicking through channels while he waited for Rimmer. He was watching a Channel 27 news report about banana peels being the leading cause of accidental deaths on Callisto when Rimmer emerged from the bathroom, straightening his tie.

Rimmer was wearing his best work uniform, neatly pressed and immaculate as ever. His hair was carefully parted and combed, his belt buckle was in perfect alignment with his tie, and you could see infinity in his highly-polished black boots.

Exasperated, Lister said, "Rimmer, why are you wearing your uniform to a pub? We're on holiday—work's the last thing we're supposed to be reminded of."

"Because, I know that everywhere I go, even on holiday, I represent the Space Corp," said Rimmer, proudly puffing out his chest.

Lister snorted with derision, but refrained from telling Rimmer that Hollister had sent him away this particular weekend was so that he wouldn't be representing the Space Corp.

"You may mock, Lister," said Rimmer, checking his part in the dresser mirror. "But I think you'll find out from tonight that women love a man in uniform."

"Not if they knew that Second Technician means the Officers don't consider you high-ranking enough to spit-shine their shoes."

"Luckily we're dealing with civilians tonight, women who will see my uniform and assume I'm in charge of ship coordinates rather than repairing vending machines for a living. Who knows? They might even think I'm the First Officer, better yet Captain—if they're too drunk to read my badge of rank, of course."

"Unless they see your badge of rank and know you're just a measly, bottom-dwelling Technician."

"Mere civilians don't know the significance of ranks in the Space Corp, Lister. A Second Technician could mean anything to them."

"I know how obsessive you are about your rank, Rimmer. And if you tell a girl you're Second Technician, she'll know there has to be someone better than you who's First Technician. Like in Star Trek, it means you've always got a bloke above you that calls you his Number Two," Lister sniggered, "and it suits you."

Rimmer chose to ignore Lister's taunt, instead focusing on trying to make his unmanageable hair lie flat. He was particularly optimistic about tonight—a whole new flock of women to try out his chat-up lines on! He'd spent the previous evening soaking in the jacuzzi, gearing up for the event by practicing his best lines, the intonation and pronunciation of every syllable. He'd stopped visiting the Red Dwarf drinking establishments long ago, when his pickup lines had been exhausted from being rejected by every woman onboard ship. But tonight was going to be different, a fresh start. He could feel it. People always got lucky on holiday!

Lister didn't want to waste any more time talking to Rimmer about his choice of attire or rank, and the throbbing in his head and his thigh agreed with this decision. The two technicians departed from their room, finding Chen, Selby, and Petersen waiting out front by the street.

"Davy-boy!" Lister's drinking buddies greeted him enthusiastically in turn with a long, complex handshake from Chen including some under the leg action, a chest-bump from Selby, and a slap on the face from Petersen. They didn't seem to spot Rimmer, who watched the odd ceremony with bemusement. He didn't think Lister looked the least bit surprised as he rubbed the red patch on his cheek in the shape of Petersen's hand.

"I hope you don't regret last night!" Petersen said with a coquettish wink. "Don't worry, the burning will go away after a week or two. Hey, if any girls ask me who Lister is, I'm gonna say you were a woman, okay? And that you were rapturous in bed."

"Fine by me," Lister laughed. "So long as you don't mind if I say the same thing about you?"

"Not at all, Davy, not at all," Petersen said, draping his arm around Lister's shoulder.

"The two of you don't remember, do you?" said Chen, looking between Lister and Petersen with a wicked smile.

"Remember what?" said Lister, with the usual panic that comes from being aware that he was incapacitated the night before and knowing a revelation of his raucous misbehavior from one of his slightly more sober friends was coming.

"Why, sealing the deal, of course!" cried Chen. "Proclaiming your lager-induced love before God as well as having it forever imprinted in ink upon your person!"

Lister's jaw dropped, looking wildly to Petersen. He had found a figurine from the top of a wedding cake on top of the television that morning. "We didn't! ...did we?"

Petersen shrugged. "I don't remember much after we chased that goat around the bowling alley."

Rimmer surveyed the scene gleefully, dreaming of Lister's impending humiliation when everyone on Red Dwarf heard that Olaf Petersen had made an honest man out of him on planet leave. All that he had to do was recount the juicy bit of gossip to the coffee machine on G Deck and his work was done—the whole ship would know within minutes! He could even manipulate the truth and say it was them who'd booked the honeymoon suite...

"Don't worry, mates,"said Selby cheerfully, throwing his arms round Lister and Petersen's shoulders. "I'm sure you can get it annulled easy-peasy since the marriage wasn't consummated."

"I dunno—they did disappear behind some bins for a bit!" Chen cried.

"You're winding me up, aren't ye?" said Lister, aghast. He had a vague recollection of stumbling behind some bins, but was pretty sure he was just being sick into them...

"'Course we're winding you up, Davy boy!" said Selby, ruffling Lister's hair, who clutched his chest and breathed a sigh of relief. "Shame I can't say the same about you and the goat—kidding!"

"Oi, Rimmer!" Petersen clapped Rimmer on the back. "Not going to be a wet blanket tonight, are you?"

Rimmer smiled stiffly in response, disappointment still coursing through him that he wouldn't have the Lister-Petersen scandal to tell when he got back.

"Not once we get a few drinks down his neck," cackled Selby.

"We'll have you dancing naked on the tables before you know it," Chen said with a wink.

Rimmer gulped, not wanting a repeat of that incident.

Lister hailed down a hopper and they all climbed in the back of the three-seater, squeezing together like a tin of sardines, Lister finding himself on Selby's lap. And so the bumpy journey to the Hacienda began, as the hopper leaped over obstructions and traffic jams, the driver having absolutely no concern over the safety of his passengers in the backseat. He didn't even have seat belts installed. With each landing they experienced a spine-juddering crunch. Lister massaged his already aching head as it was rammed into the roof of the cab. Petersen giggled with each acceleration and bounding leap, as though it were an amusement park ride. Rimmer just tried to grin and bear the ride, wondering whose hand was on his knee. Chen, who seemed to be quite enjoying the ride, offered the driver a five pound tip to race the hopper next to them. Needless to say, when they finally arrived at their destination they were significantly worse for wear, which half of the party seemed to find exuberating.

Lister paid the cab fare with the card Hollister had given him. "Well, this is the place," he said as they stood and looked up at the pink glowing light flickering THE HACIENDA.

"Come on, boys," said Petersen, putting his arms around Lister and Chen. "Let's get plastered!"

The five of them entered the crowded pub and were greeted by loud, thumping music from the top of the pops that made Rimmer feel like burying his head in sand. They found a table in the back of the bar and by the rule of nose-goes it was decided that Rimmer was to buy the first round.

Rimmer grudgingly took a pen out of his pocket and took down their orders. He went up to the bar and ordered two pints of bitter for Chen, Lister and Selby both wanted two pints of lager, Petersen asked for four bottles of Tuborg, and as for Rimmer—he was playing it safe to start with and ordered a mineral water.

"Lister, what'd you have to bring Rimmer for?" Selby hissed once Rimmer was out of earshot.

"I'm sorry," Lister said, "when I asked if he wanted to go I thought that he'd say no like he usually does."

"Don't worry," Petersen winked. "I won't let him spoil the evening."

Rimmer returned to the table and sat next to Lister. A moment later a barmaid came to the table with their drinks.

"What'd you order, Rimmer?" Lister asked, eying the clear liquid filling Rimmer's pint, highly doubtful that it was a brand of pomace brandy.

"Perrier."

"Perrier?" Chen scoffed. "Get some balls, man!"

"If Rimmer wants to piss his life away drinking mineral water, that's his provocative. You know what they say," said Selby. "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't drown it or you'll have to walk home." The others looked at Selby incomprehensibly. "It's something me gran used to say!"

Petersen went to reach for his drink, 'accidentally' knocking over Rimmer's in the process. The glass fell to the floor and shattered. Rimmer stood up.

"Don't worry about it," said Petersen, getting to his feet. "It's my fault, I owe you a new one."

Petersen ambled up the bar and squeezed his way in between two other patrons. "A mineral water, please—with a good helping of your finest vodka."

Petersen paid for the drink and carried it back to the table, plonking it down in front of Rimmer. "There you go, no harm done."

Rimmer tentatively tasted the drink, eying Petersen suspiciously. "Does this smell funny to you?" he asked, holding the drink under Lister's nose.

"No," said Lister innocently. He knew that Petersen had tampered with Rimmer's drink, and he was all for Rimmer loosening up a bit.

Rimmer shrugged and continued to sup on his drink. It was quite good, actually…

They talked about Zero-Gee football, the housing market on Triton and the weather girl on Channel 27 as they took turns buying rounds. When Chen returned from buying the fourth round, he placed Rimmer's 'mineral water' in front of him and said, "Rimmer, I think that girl over at the bar is giving you the eye."

Rimmer turned around and spotted a brunette at the bar, toying with the cherry in her cocktail as she looked in his direction with what he blearily recognized as lust.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Rimmer, using Lister's shoulder to steady himself as he rose to his feet. He was filled with confidence, a million and one different pickup lines in his head as he staggered over to the brunette. But when he made it up to her the one that slipped through his lips was, "Fancy a shag?"

"You sure don't waste any time with small talk," the woman said, taking a long sip from her drink without looking at Rimmer.

She didn't dump her drink over my head, Rimmer thought with relief. So far, so good…

"So that's not a no, then?" asked Rimmer hopefully. "I saw you looking my way."

"I'm sorry," the woman said coolly. "But I was actually looking at your friend."

Rimmer swallowed. "Which one?"

"The one sitting next to you," she pointed at the back of Lister's head. "The one with the dreadlocks. He looks pretty cute,I love that whole Rastafarian look. And no offense, but you're not really my type." She said, staring pointedly at Rimmer's attire.

"Him?" Rimmer scoffed, feeling a tad revolted that any woman could find Lister more attractive than him. He wondered how many drinks she's already had if her vision was so impaired.

"Do you think you could introduce us?"

Rimmer felt like gagging.

"That would be a waste of time on your part," Rimmer said, shaking his head sadly. "He's a simpleton. In fact, it's the first day he's been out without his safety helmet. He ate too many paint chips as a child and he's also got this neurological disease that makes him walk diagonally. Oh, and he has syphilis—a terminal case. The doctors have given him two weeks, tops."

Smiling with satisfaction at the look of horror that came over the brunette's face, Rimmer returned to the table.

"Well?" Lister said expectantly, nudging Rimmer. "How'd it go?"

"Not well," Rimmer admitted. "She was blind."

"You what?" Lister looked over his shoulder at the woman, who looked back at him with something akin to pity. "Her eyes looks fine to me…"

"Yes, well when you get up close you'll see that they're both glass," Rimmer lied, downing the rest of his drink that he could have sworn had been clear when he left.

"Hey, look who it is," said Selby, inclining his head towards the doors. Four other heads turned to see what he was talking about. MacWilliams, a miner who was built like a boulder with a tuft of hair on his head sauntered up to the bar with his entourage of marginally smaller boulders. "But don't look too long!"

The five of them buried their faces in their drinks as MacWilliams and his posse passed by their table. Rimmer distinctly saw a vein jumping in MacWilliams's thick neck as he passed.

"I heard a rumor that when he gets his Sunday paper he throws out the personalized ads and just keeps the obituaries," Chen whispered.

"What—why?" said Lister, trying hard not to look at MacWilliams.

"He likes to look for the funeral services with wakes," Chen continued. "Let's just say that he likes his partners to be stiffer than he is."

There was a collective groan of disgusted shock from around the table.

"Seriously—why?" Lister whispered, afraid that MacWilliams's muscular ears would pick up on their conversation.

"Probably because they can't say no!" Petersen quipped, causing Lister, Chen and Selby to break into a paroxysm of laughing.

"You really mean to say that oaf is into necrophilia?" Rimmer said as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"I don't know what that means, so I'm just going to say yes," said Chen.

"Dis-" Rimmer hiccuped. "-gusting."

Lister patted his jacket pocket and found his pack of cigarettes. "I'm going out for a ciggie," he told the others, heading out the side door to the smoking shelter.

"Your round, Rimmer," said Selby. Rimmer would have protested, but for some reason he was starting to feel really good—agreeable, loose, a bit cocky. In his mind's eye he saw himself strutting up to the bar like the bar floor was a catwalk. In actuality he was running into tables, getting his tie in other people's pints, and creating some very angry patrons.

At the bar, Rimmer found MacWilliams chatting up the brunette who had turned him down earlier.

"Ugh not him again…" she said, as MacWilliams demanded, "What do you want?"

"I'd watch out for this one," Rimmer slurred to the woman, swaying on the spot, "he usually likes to wait for the rigor mortis to set in."

"I beg your pardon!" the woman cried.

"What're you trying to say?" said MacWilliams gruffly, as his goons flanked him on either side.

Back at the table, Petersen pounded his empty bottle on the table. "What's taking him so long?" he was seriously starting to consider sucking up the pool of spilled beer on the table.

"Uh-oh," Chen's jaw dropped as he pointed to the bar, where a half-circle of rippling muscle had formed around Rimmer. "Looks like Rimmer's in for it!"

"Hey, guys—what's going on?" Lister asked, as Chen, Selby and Petersen all hurtled out the side door into the smoking shelter. "Where's Rimmer?"

"About to get himself killed," said Petersen. "We thought you might like to watch."

"Looks like he's picked a fight with MacWilliams," said Selby.

Lister sighed wearily, taking one final pull on his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. He exhaled the plume of smoke. "Let's go rescue the smegger."

"I'm speaking plain English here!" Rimmer was saying when Lister and the others came up behind him. "You—" he pointed at MacWilliams, "like to copulate—" he demonstrated with a pelvic thrust, "with cadavers!" he mimed getting hanged with a noose.

"Excuse our friend," Lister interjected. "He's not our friend…" he heard Chen mutter from behind. Lister ignored him and continued, "He's had a few too many mineral waters, if you know what I mean."

"Are you trying to say that I like to sleep with dead people?" said MacWilliams slowly, as if Rimmer had been trying to explain to him the thermodynamic potential of enthalpy.

"Yes! Finally!" Rimmer cried. "Even second class post moves faster than your brain."

MacWilliams turned to one of his mates and whispered, "Is he trying to say I'm stupid?"

"Yeah, I think so..." said the man after some thoughtful deliberation.

"That's what I thought." MacWilliams wound up his first. "Why you little—"

"Alright, calm down, calm down," said Lister, trying to sound calm himself. "Nobody here wants to fight—"

Rimmer ducked just in time, and MacWilliams's fist collided with Lister's face. He fell backwards into Chen and Selby, holding his nose, which was already streaming blood. Petersen used some of his Dutch courage and launched himself at one of MacWilliams's mates, head-butting him in his gut. Chen climbed up onto the bar. His intention was to fly onto one of the cronies' shoulders, but instead slipped in a pool of beer and fell gracelessly to the floor thanks to his impaired motor skills. He picked himself up and tried again, this time tackling one of MacWilliams's mates from behind, hanging around his thick neck. Chen soon found himself thrown off and in a headlock, and Lister, still punch-drunk, looked around for Rimmer and located him just in time to see him slip out the doors.

"Rimmer, you smegging cowardly—" but Lister's sentence ended with an "Oomph!" as he was punched in the stomach by MacWilliams. All around the pub other drunken fights were breaking out as someone accidentally punched someone else and got them involved, the brawling spreading like wildfire. Patrons smashed chairs over each others heads and floor soon became slick from all the pints that had been tipped over as tables were upended, and people were slipping on the floor left and right, getting trampled by the brawlers that were still standing.

Outside, Rimmer ran pell-mell down the sidewalk and around the block, the night breeze whipping his perfectly parted hair out of place. Once he figured he'd put a safe distance between himself and danger, he stopped, breathless, in front of two Shore Patrol Officers.

"Is there a problem, Sir?" The taller of the two Officers asked.

"Yes," Rimmer panted, nearly doubled over. "The Hacienda…huge bar fight…only just made it out before all hell broke loose…"

"Thank you, citizen," said the shorter Officer. He tipped his hat to Rimmer, which was clearly on backwards judging by the groove in the plastic and the extent to which it hung down over his eyes.

"We'll head over and break it up right now," said the taller Officer, tapping his silver truncheon against his palm in a manner that suggested he enjoyed his job far too much.

…...

On Miranda, keeping the peace was extremely high on the government's list of priorities, right after keeping shrubberies and flowerbeds maintained and just before keeping pesticides and radioactive waste out of the drinking water. Thus, Mirandian officials take their Shore Patrol Unit very seriously, the only real qualification to become an Officer being the ability to spell one's own name. The wannabe officers were then seated in the basement of the town hall and shown a twenty-five minute instructional video and then sat a ten question true or false quiz. If they scored at least sixty percent, the new Shore Patrol Officers were issued their uniform, handcuffs, their own squad hopper, a taser, a can of mace, and of course, their silver truncheon, better known to those in the trade as their 'argument settling sticks'.

The Shore Patrol Officers on Miranda were a breed onto themselves. Most of the applicants were aggressive by nature, a trait crucial to maintaining order on the armpit of a moon where a crime was committed every 1.23 seconds. Those Officers who were more gentle in nature were shown a video of people kicking wiener dogs every morning to get them fired up.

The citizens of Miranda who knew what was good for them dropped their broken bottles and set down their bar stools, dropping whatever confrontation they were in to flee the scene when they saw the two Shore Patrol Officers charge into the Hacienda with their cudgels raised in the air. They knew that if you didn't want to be super gluing bits of your skull back into place the next day, you run the other way when you see the SPO's. When there was a pile-up to get out the doors, other patrons resorted to breaking windows to make their escape.

The members of Red Dwarf that were in the center of the fight, however, didn't have this precious nugget of cultural information and continued on fighting, oblivious to the fact they were in serious danger of having their skulls rearranged.

"All right, stop that! Break it up, break it up!" the taller SPO yelled, bringing his argument settling stick down on one of MacWilliams's chums. The other Officer gave Petersen a not-so-healthy smack on the back of his head. Chen angered one of the SPO's by dodging the blow, resulting in him being chased around the pub, while Selby was bodily thrown over the bar counter by MacWilliams.

Lister felt the truncheon crack against the back of his kneecaps, sending him crashing face-first into the bar counter as his knees buckled. He hit the counter squarely between the eyes, all sight and sound of the fight fading as his vision was enveloped in black. Lister keeled over sideways, loosing consciousness in a pool of spilled beer and shards from their broken bottles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few little things about this chapter: Selby saying "that's his provocative" is Selby getting mixed up, I'd originally put 'prerogative', but then thought that was a word Selby would be likely to smeg up on. Also, I do not condone the kicking of wiener dogs or any other animals for that matter, I was just trying to think of something that would make a lot of people angry to see.
> 
> As for the SPO's, I figured such a lawless moon rampant with crime would need their law enforcement to be as twisted as the criminals.


	6. Banged Up

"Is he…dead?" a tentative foot nudged Lister's side.

"No, apparently the drunken oaf tripped and hit his face on the bar counter after assaulting SPO Jenkins. You should've seen the state of him—his face looked like mince pie and he was missing half of his teeth."

"Wow, this little guy did that?"

"He may look harmless, but be careful—the SPO's who brought him in says he has the cold hard eyes of...well, the kind of bloke who gets drunk and trips SPO's."

The door closed with a heavy thud and clicked as it was locked. Lister, in his semi-conscious state, was trying to make sense of everything he'd just heard, and concluded that he must be having some sort of lucid dream. He dared himself to open just one eye to check, and when he did he was greeted by a familiar gray ceiling. He must be dreaming, just as he suspected. But his whole body felt like he'd been beaten with a stick, and usually he didn't remember the pain in his dreams being this realistic…

"Oi—did you just open your eye?"

Wait a second, Lister thought, his brain moving at a sluggishly slow pace. That wasn't Rimmer's voice...too deep. Not nearly weaselly enough…

Lister's eyes shot open, and he came to the realization that he was lying on his back on a cold stone floor. The room was mostly dark, save for a single light bulb hanging directly over his face. He closed his eyes again as light spots danced before his black vision. Where am I…?

A large, unfamiliar bearded face suddenly loomed over his own and blocked out the harsh light. "You are alive! I knew I saw you open your eyes a second ago!"

Lister stared blankly back at the face before him, finding it very confusing. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes in focus. "Where…where am…."

"You wanna know where you are? Just look to your left."

Lister turned his head and saw another gray wall. The man sighed. "Your other left."

Lister looked the other way, his head protesting every movement by jabbing his brain with a hot poker of pain. When his eyes re-focused he found that he was staring at a black metal cell door with a barred square for the window. His brow furrowed. This hurt as well. "...Jail?"

"Not exactly," said the man. "The SPO's are kind of like little kids that parents will give a plastic steering wheel to so they think that they're the ones driving the car. No, this is more like a time-out zone. They can never really press charges against you or anything. But those sticks they carry around are usually enough to make anyone behave."

Lister was still processing everything his cellmate had just said. His head felt foggy, "Did they say what I did to get here?"

"Apparently you assaulted an SPO. Good work on that, by the way. Those guys are pricks. They get handed a truncheon and suddenly they think they're all high and mighty. I'm in here for looking at one the wrong way, apparently. But to them, looking at them at all is the wrong way. Well, to be fair, it probably had more to do with the fact that I'd just pissed in their engine."

Lister struggled to sit up, "I don't remember assaulting anybody, but I feel like I might've been…"

"I'm not surprised you don't remember," said the man, shaking his head sadly. "You seldom do, when you've had as much to drink as you have. I can smell it on you. The last time I got that drunk I woke up in an evening gown that wasn't even my wife's."

"You're right, I don't remember," said Lister slowly. "But it just doesn't seem like my style to assault someone, even when I'm drunk..."

After his third unsuccessful attempt to lift himself off the floor, his cell mate reached out a hand and helped him up. "I'm Reg, by the way," he said, wringing Lister's whole arm.

"Dave," Lister said, pulling his hand away and massaging his arm socket. He looked past Reg's head and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He rushed over to survey the damage from the fight. Heavy purple bruises were rising on his cheekbone and between his eyes, which both had shiners. It made it look like he was wearing a purple superhero -style mask. His upper lip and chin were both caked with blood from when MacWilliams had punched his nose. Lister turned on the tap and splashed water on his face to wash off the blood, using the hem of his t-shirt to dry his face.

The cold water cleared up Lister's mind considerably. Memories from the night began flooding back to him as he collapsed onto the cell bench. He remembered the conversation about MacWilliams and his sexual preferences, ordering drinks, going out back to the smoking shelter, and then getting into the fight with MacWilliams and his cronies. But why had the fight started…?

His mind played back a hazy clip of a lanky Second Technician with hair like a wire mesh scrubber scurrying out the Hacienda's front doors.

"Rimmer," Lister growled, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists. Rimmer insulted McWilliams, scarpered, and left me to face the music… "I am going to kill him!"

"Easy now," Reg advised, dropping his voice to a whisper. "They don't like that kind of talk around here. Who's Rimmer? A friend of yours?"

"I'd hardly call him a friend," Lister said. He had said this so many times in the last few days he was considering putting it on a t-shirt. "More like forced company. We work together on the JMC mining ship, Red Dwarf. We're on a planet leave. He's a world class coward. He started up a fight and ran, which is why me face looks like I just got ten rounds in with Joe Calzaghe. He's a total smeghead…"

"Sounds like one," Reg nodded. "I knew a guy like him once, my housemate at University. He was majoring in flag semaphore. I used to put those clear Lifesaver candies in his shower head. It was a shame, though—it worked wonders for his wig-wagging when the flag sticks stuck to his hands."

"Listen, Reg," said Lister, "how would I go about getting out of here so I can try out that Lifesaver thing on Rimmer?"

"Got any money on you?"

Lister felt around in his pockets for the charge card Hollister had given him, before he remembered that he had given it to Rimmer to get a round of drinks in. "Nope, 'fraid not."

"Neither have I," said Reg. "So it looks like neither of us will be getting out of here. The whole establishment here is a load of old pony. Miranda has won the award for Most Corrupted Law Enforcement in the Galaxy ten years running. All it takes is an ice lolly to bribe the Chief of Police to look the other way. They can keep you in here forever if you don't pay the £350 for bail. It doesn't matter what the offense, the bail price is the same. It's what the government uses to pay the SPO's wages, see."

"Do I still get to make a phone call?"

"Sure," said Reg, getting to his feet. "I tried calling my missus, but she told me it serves me right. Things em...aren't going too well with us at the moment. She's been mad me at me ever since I got drunk and sent for a mail-order bride bot from Tethys. I came home from work one day and all my stuff was sitting on the front doorstep. My wife had decided to kick me out when she signed for the delivery, but kept Natasha 38ZP-QR71 to do all the housework for her. She's only talked to me once since then, and half of it was expletives."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Lister, not sure what else to say.

"Oi, Betty-Dave here wants his phone call!" Reg bellowed through the bars.

A few moments later a female SPO was at the cell door. "Very well," she said, taking a mobile phone on an elastic tether from her belt and slipping it through the door. Lister got up to receive it and dialed the number of their hotel, then asking to be connected to Rimmer in their room.

The phone rang several times before it picked up. "Hello?" Rimmer's voice came tentatively through the receiver.

"Rimmer, you had better-" Lister's threat was cut short, however, as Lister heard the phone slam down and then the sound of a dial tone.

"Listen, can I try someone else?" said Lister desperately.

"No. That was your one call," Betty said pleasantly. Lister snapped the phone shut and thrust it back at the Officer."Hopefully someone will be here to retrieve you in the morning." She marched off down the hallway, her stiletto-heeled boots clicking as she went.

"Smegging fantastic," Lister fumed, kicking the sink bad-temperately. "I'm going to be reported as AWOL if I don't report back tomorrow..."

Reg sat down on the bench next to Lister, clapping him on the back sympathetically. "Oi, you know what I've just realized?"

"What?" said Lister flatly.

"You look just like Gary Wilmot!"

Lister had a feeling that it was going to be a very, very long night.

...

The next morning, Lister was awakened from a highly unsatisfying night's sleep on a hard cold bench with Reg's shoulder acting as a bulky pillow by the sound of a truncheon beating on the holding cell door.

"Oi, you with the rat tails," the SPO shouted. "You've made bail."

Lister yawned and stretched. He took his jaw in both hands and twisted his head to the left, producing a series of stomach-churning cracking sounds. He did the same on his right side, though it did little to relieve the stiffness in his neck.

"See you, man," Lister said, clapping Reg's massive shoulder.

"Bye, Davy," Reg mumbled sleepily, and continued to drool onto the wall.

Lister stepped outside of his cell on legs that felt like stilts and promptly tripped over a pile of rumbled up bath tissue. Slightly bewildered, he followed the SPO and his shiny clicking boots down the lane of holding cells.

They stopped at a desk. "Here's your belongings," the Officer handed Lister his spare packet of cigarettes, which Lister had no memory whatsoever of having confiscated. This rather worried him, as the pockets of his trousers he'd been wearing had been too small for the packet so he'd kept them tucked in the waistband of his boxer shorts.

"Listen, are me mates I was with last night here?"

"No, they were released on bail this morning," said the Officer.

"What? Who bailed them out?"

"They bailed themselves out," said the Officer, taking a clipboard off a nail on the wall. "They spent the whole night in the tank, woke up this morning and remembered they had credit cards on them, the bunch of twonks. And when I let them out of the cell this morning, somehow they'd managed to get drunk again overnight. Can you believe that?"

Lister could believe it. Petersen was known to hollow out the heels of his boots and fill them with emergency whiskey. Petersen said he loved the taste of polycarbonate compound that it added.

"Very professional," said Lister snarkily as he looked over the SPO's shoulder at the clipboard, where all the names of the holdees were scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting along with their crime, personal items confiscated, and a check box for whether or not they'd paid bail. "Did me mates ask about me before they left?"

"Yeah, they did, as a matter of fact. They asked to see your body."

"You what?"

"Well, they thought you were dead, with the state you came in here last night. They came to pay their last respects. They even brought you some flowers. Or rather, flowers made out of bog rolls. Best they had to work with."

Lister remembered tripping over the white mound outside of his cell and shook his head, though he was impressed with their resourcefulness. "How do I get out of here?"

"Straight ahead and to the right, then through those double doors."

"Cheers," Lister said. He went down the hallway and to the doors and froze when he found Rimmer waiting for him, an antiques magazine in his lap and two packed suitcases at his side.

Rimmer looked up from his magazine and spotted Lister standing across the room, glaring at him with undisguised contempt. Rimmer dropped the magazine and rushed up to him. "Listy, there you are!"

"Don't talk to me," Lister said loudly, pushing past Rimmer and picking up his suitcase.

"I was the one who bailed you out," Rimmer said, as if to rectify any cause Lister had to feel angry at him. He was greeted by silence. "You could thank me, you know."

"Yeah, but who should I really be thanking?" said Lister, snatching the credit card from the breast pocket of Rimmer's uniform. "You? Or the JMC?"

"It's hardly important who paid for your bail," said Rimmer. "I could have left you here to rot."

"No you couldn't," Lister said. "Imagine what Hollister would've done to you when you came back to Red Dwarf without me. When he found out that I was in a holding cell all because of a fight you started, that you knew I'd been arrested and you'd left me behind?"

"I suppose it would be quite a relief to the other one-thousand, one-hundred and sixty-seven crew members," said Rimmer. "Besides, I didn't know you were in here, I only found out from watching the local news this morning."

"Rimmer, I used me one and only phone call to ring you at the hotel last night, and you hung up on me!" Lister shouted, his face mere inches from Rimmer's, his hand clenched on Rimmer's collar.

"Was that you?" Rimmer squeaked.

"Forget this," Lister said bad-temperately, releasing Rimmer and marching back up the corridor the way he came.

"Um, Lister—where are you going?" Rimmer said, hurrying to follow his enraged bunk mate. "We have to leave now—our shuttle back to Red Dwarf is boarding in twenty minutes!"

Lister found the Officer that he'd spoken to mere moments before. "I'd like to post bail for Reg, me cell mate from last night."

"What?" Rimmer cried. "You're going to post bail for some half-witted delinquent you hardly know?"

"He's a better friend than you, smeg-for-brains."

The SPO took the clipboard off the wall again. "Right—Reginald Thompson is in for defacing a Shore Patrol Officer's vehicle..."

Rimmer tapped his watch pointedly. "Can we hurry this up, please?" Lister asked.

"That will be half a hundred times seven more," said the Officer, swiping the JMC card. "Would you like a receipt?"

"Eh?" Lister said blankly.

"He means three hundred and fifty pounds," Rimmer whispered. "He did the same to me, only he tried to spell out the numbers using his body. He had to call in a second Officer to do help him do the five."

"Why don't you just say three hundred and fifty?" said Lister.

"Well, if you had to tell people the exact same dollar pound amount repeatedly every day, wouldn't you want some variation to make the job more exciting? I'm stuck in here dealing with bail, don't you think I'd rather be out there smashing some skulls in?"

"Look, we've really got to run," said Lister. "Just tell Reg that in return for me posting his bail, he's got to sort things out with his missus."

"Lister, we've got ten minutes," Rimmer said urgently.

"Then what are we standing around wagging jaws for?" Lister picked up his suitcase again. "Let's go, let's go!"


	7. The Aftermath

"...Thank you for flying Miranda's line of Virgin Shuttles, we hope that you enjoy your flight."

In an effort to ignore the roaring of the engine and thrusters starting up, Lister reached into the netting on the back of the seat in front of him and retrieved the in-flight magazine, Up, Up and Away . He feigned interested in an article about the engineering process of Virgin's new line of demi-light speed zippers, but it did little to ease the tension between him and Rimmer. He wished he could have been on a shuttle with his mates instead, but the shuttle taking Chen, Selby and Petersen back to Red Dwarf wasn't leaving until later that day, after their class on the importance of sobriety while operating gas cookers.

The shuttle took off and the passengers were thrust to the back of their seats as though a steel hand was forcing them down as the G-force kicked in and they broke through the stratosphere. Once they were out of Miranda's orbit and all the passengers with weaker stomachs had used up all their sick bags, Lister gave up the magazine as a bad job and tucked it back into the netting. He could sense Rimmer trying to make eye contact with him, so Lister quickly turned his head to rest against the quivering window and watch the steely gray mass of Miranda shrink away below him.

"I still don't know why you think you should get the window seat."

Lister lifted his head up off the window and looked at Rimmer with disdain. "I'll tell you why I get the window seat, you smeghead. Because you stitched me up back there!"

"I cannot believe we're back on this," Rimmer exclaimed. "What about forgive and forget? You sound like a broken record."

"Rimmer, how can I forgive and forget when you haven't even apologized?" Lister cried. An attendant walked by and pressed a stern finger to her lips, gesturing to an elderly passenger who was trying and failing to take a nap. Lister lowered his voice. "And you're not going to, are you? You're not even going to say sorry."

"You didn't have to get involved," said Rimmer defensively. "You could have ran off and saved yourself like I did when you sensed danger."

"Yeah, I could have," said Lister. "But I wouldn't, because it would have meant leaving my friends behind to face it. And I wouldn't do that. I'm not like you."

"You can't say that it was entirely my fault, I've never woken up with a hangover from drinking mineral waters all night before!"

"Hey, I wasn't the one spiking your drinks all night!"

"No," said Rimmer, "But you knew, and you didn't tell me."

"Look, sorry, it was wrong of me to not warn you, but that doesn't excuse you for—"

"You should be thanking me," Rimmer interrupted loudly. "I was the one that saved your bacon. If I hadn't run off, no one would have alerted the SPO's to come break up the fight and keep you from all becoming mince meat pies."

"YOU sent the SPO's in?" Lister was angrily hushed by the flight attendant again. "Let me get this straight. It's not only your fault my face looks the way it does now, but you were also the one who got me banged up?"

"Well, obviously it sounds worse when you put it like that-"

Had Lister been a violent man, he would have considered taking the cord from the emergency space helmet under his seat and throttling Rimmer with it. But as he was not, he settled for the next best thing.

"I didn't win the holiday."

Rimmer looked confused. "What do you mean, you didn't win the holiday?"

Lister sighed. "I didn't win the holiday, I didn't want you to come, and it wasn't a late birthday present. I really did forget it."

Rimmer smiled. Why does he always have to smile over soul-crushing news? Lister inwardly groaned.

Rimmer's voice was a tad higher than usual when he asked, "So what was it, then?"

Lister took a deep breath. "That day Hollister called me into his office, he told me the two of us had won a free holiday. But what it really was was him trying to get us out of his hair for when the Space Fleet Commander visited. He didn't want us—well, more you than me—messing things up for him."

"I don't believe this!" Rimmer cried. This time it was his turn to be shushed. "You really mean to say this whole thing was just to send us away so we wouldn't embarrass Hollister during the Space Fleet Commander's visit?"

Lister nodded. "I'd say he was adamant about it."

"I don't believe you. It's preposterous. You're just trying to make up some cock and bull story to get back at me."

"I'm not!" Lister insisted. "Think about it, Rimmer! Who was on Planet Leave with us? The lot I always hang around with and MacWilliams and his mates. Did you see any Officers, or any of the high fliers? The ones who are 'cut out for greatness', as you put it? Did you?"

"No..." said Rimmer slowly, his smile fading. "I didn't..."

"See!" Lister said. "Now I guess you finally know where you stand. We're the dregs of the Space Corp, Rimmer. The dust and dirt they want swept under the rug. Hollister proved that by sending us here this weekend. We're not cut out for greatness. But someone has to be at the bottom, right? And believe me, you'd be a lot happier if you'd just accept that it's you."

"That's all well and good for you, Lister," Rimmer sniffed. "But I am going places. All I have to do is pass that pesky Astronavigation Exam."

"Right, sure, Rimmer," Lister scoffed. "Eighth time is the charm, right? I'll bet you'll pass with flying colors next time."

"You may mock, Lister," said Rimmer. "But I'll bet you all of my pips and insignia that it was you that Hollister wanted to send away, and rightly so—and the only reason he had me go along was to keep you in line."

Lister threw back his head and laughed . "I fail to see what's so funny about being so irresponsible and untrustworthy in the eyes of the Captain that you need your own personal escort, Lister."

"You've got it all wrong, man," said Lister brusquely. "Don't you think that if that was the case, Hollister would have called you into his office instead of me? You've got it all backwards. Hollister was more worried about you smegging things up. So he told me to tell you we'd won a holiday. He also gave me an acting gig in making you believe that I would ever invite you to come with me. But it's easy to give an award-winning performance when the Captain offers you an extra week's salary upfront for a believable performance. You were right to be suspicious."

"This can't be happening," Rimmer murmured, holding his head. But he couldn't deny that all of the pieces were falling into place, that Lister was telling the truth. He really was put up to all this by Hollister. He didn't want him to come, he wasn't being nice inviting him along, he'd been paid. Paid to spend time off the work clock with him. Bribed to tolerate him. But what stung even worse was knowing where he stood in Hollister's eyes if he seemed to place more confidence in Lister than him. Well, he'd show him...one day he would be Captain, and use Hollister as his footstool!

"I guess we're even," said Rimmer at last. His voice was monotone, his face expressionless.

Lister had indeed been looking to get even. He thought he'd get some sort of savage pleasure in telling Rimmer the truth. He hadn't expected to end up feeling so cheap and scuzzy. He knew he'd crossed the line in telling Rimmer he'd received payment to tolerate a weekend in his company. "I suppose we are. Look, Rimmer, I'm really s-"

"Don't," said Rimmer, holding up a hand. He looked down at his feet to avoid Lister's gaze and sat in stony silence.

"Smeg," Lister said softly, resting his head on the window again. Hollister had been right. Neither of them would ever admit it, but he was the closest thing Rimmer had to a friend. Was being the operative word. Lister felt slightly less remorseful when he felt his bruised and swollen eye. He had never been so eager for a planet leave to be over and get back to Red Dwarf.

…...

Captain Hollister paced back and forth behind his desk. His hands were clenched into fists. His jowls quivered with indignation. He unscrewed the lid from his blood pressure medication and choked down a pill without water. He had just received the credit card bill from his brilliant plan.

He heard a knock on his office door. He grunted and Todhunter came in. His face bright red, Hollister wordlessly pounded his fist on the open bill on his desk. Todhunter looked down at the document, scanned it, and let out a low whistle.

"Bring you Lister and Rimmer?" Todhunter hazarded a well-educated guess.

Hollister nodded again, although it looked much more like a spasm. Todhunter decided it wasn't a good time to remind the Captain that he had suggested putting a limit on those cards, but Hollister had laughed and said, "What's the worst they can do?"

Having been fetched by Todhunter, Lister and Rimmer were now sitting in two chairs before Hollister; both were scowling and avoiding the others gaze. They had scooted their chairs so far away from each other that they were practically on opposite sides of the room. Their childish behavior did nothing to improve the Captain's towering temper.

"Well, I can see the whole getting to know each other better thing obviously didn't work," said Hollister snidely to Lister, who looked back defiantly.

"No, it did work, sir," Lister said. "I learned Rimmer's even more of a smeghead than any of us ever could have ever thought possible." Rimmer threw a dirty look in Lister's direction before remembering he was supposed to not be able to stand the sight of him.

Hollister decided he didn't have time for the pettiness of his two lowest-ranking technicians and it was time to get down to business; they could sort out their problems in a few mandatory sessions with the ship's relationship and guidance counselor, and he told them so, which only darkened their expressions further.

"Right," said Hollister, flourishing the credit card bill. "I got this in the post today."

Rimmer and Lister saw what it was and gulped.

Appreciating that they seemed to be showing a healthy amount of trepidation, Hollister said, "Two nights at the Miranda Hitlon, room service charges including caviar and foie de gras, what looks like the entire contents of a drug store, a hopper fare that looks like it hit every bar on Miranda with the meter running, a tattoo-" (he looked at Lister) "—an extensive bar tab, a rented hovercraft that was found crashed into a ditch with a dozen empty bottles of Leopard lager and a semi-conscious goat in the backseat according to the police report, a repair bill to rebuild the entire Hacienda from the ground up, and two bail fees. How much do you think that weekend came to?"

"You said we could spend as much as we-" Lister faltered—Hollister looked like an angry red kettle that was going to start blowing steam at any second.

"I said, guess how much that weekend came to?"

"Umm..." Lister absently fiddled with a hole in his trousers. "Twenty-five hundred?"

"Twenty-five hundred?" Hollister repeated, a mad look in his eye. "Try closer to what the two of you combined make in a year!"

"Preposterous!" said Rimmer. Hollister looked at him dangerously. "Maybe if you gave us both a raise first..."

"You're lucky I'm not docking your pay for the rest of the trip!"

"But sir," said Lister, "You told me that I could do whatever I wanted with that card. You didn't say anything about restrictions."

"No, Lister, I didn't say anything about restrictions—but I didn't think you'd destroy an entire pub! It was on the news. Alcohol all over the floor, some punk kids walked by the wreckage at night and threw their cigarette butts through the broken windows. The whole place went up in flames, and since my crew started the fight, the insurance company is holding the JMC financially responsible."

"To be fair, sir, MacWilliams and his cronies had a whole lot more to do with-" Rimmer started, but Lister overpowered him with, "Not as much as you had to do with it, smeg-for-brains!"

"Enough!" Hollister shouted, and Rimmer and Lister fell silent, wearing identical looks of deepest dislike for the other. "It doesn't matter who started it. What does matter is that you were all in on the fight and now I'm picking up the tab." Hollister looked back down at the total on the bill and shuddered. Lister half expected the Captain to suddenly clutch his heart and fall to the floor. "That fight made breaking news on Channel 27!"

"Sir," said Lister as politely as he could to defer the conversation from their wrongdoings. "How did the Space Corp Commander's visit go, anyway?"

Hollister's bright red face paled, he looked as if he had suddenly been reminded of a bad dream from his childhood. "It was a disaster," he croaked.

"What happened, sir?"

"What didn't happen, more like," Hollister said, bustling over to a cabinet and swigging several pills down with a bottle of whiskey. "First, the Commander went to use one of the vending machines and was squirted from head to foot with black currant juice, which he just so happens to be allergic to! Apparently, the notice for it needing repair went in right after the two of you took off. He was covered in boils but still wanted to see some mining in action, so I took him to the expedition on Ariel mining silicate. I'd planned on suspending the mining operation for the weekend since I sent half of the team away—MacWilliams and the rest. But the Commander was insistent. We brought in about twenty skutters to compensate, but all of them were crushed by a wall of ice caving in on the mining shaft. It was a nightmare—do you have any idea how much those things cost to replace? And they can't even do the job half the time!"

"They were designed for service and maintenance, not mining," Lister said hotly, clearly irked by the Captain's casual news of the deaths of twenty skutters. He found all of their technical shortcomings to be endearing, especially a skutter whom he'd befriended and affectionately named Bob, who took the opportunity to attack Rimmer's leg every time he was near.

"Yes, but I hardly could have risked that same thing happening with crew members who didn't know the terrain, could I? I wouldn't still be Captain if I had! Then there was dinner. I told the Commander he could have whatever he wanted and our catering department would deliver. He wanted Makizushi. Unfortunately, our best sushi chef was busy demolishing a pub. The next morning the Commander came down with food poisoning and had to spend the rest of his visit in sickbed."

"So," said Rimmer, a self-satisfied smile creeping over his face. "What you're really telling me is that us undesirables, the crew members that you want to sweep under the rug, are all essential to the Red Dwarf mission after all."

"He—" Hollister looked at Lister furiously. "You told him the real reason I sent you away?"

Lister nodded. "With all due respect, it looks like you've really smegged things up, sir. And you can't even blame us for it."

"Now, if we're not in trouble—being that we had nothing to do with everything that went wrong with the SCC's visit and you did in fact tell Listy we could spend as much as we liked and no official charges have been pressed as of yet—are we free to go now?"

"Yes," Hollister growled. "Get out of my sight, the pair of you!"

Without a backward glance, Rimmer and Lister hurried out of the room before Hollister changed his mind, hardly able to believe they had got off without so much as PD.

Hollister put his face in his hands and massaged his temples. He would need a house call from Talia to cope with this episode. "Holly?"

Holly's digitalized head appeared on his computer monitor. "Yes, Captain Hollister?"

"Would you mind counting how many days I have left till retirement?"

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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